


People Help People

by beformista



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Multi, Steve Rogers is Iron Man, Tony Stark on a wheelchair, Translation from Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beformista/pseuds/beformista
Summary: This is a translation of Люди помогают людям, written by baley_jaldIt was Reed Richard's fault that he, Steve Rogers, Iron Man, was stuck in the 21st century, in a world that was completely alien to him.
Relationships: Hank Pym/Janet Van Dyne, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2018





	1. I will be a soldier while there are things in the world worth fighting for

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Люди помогают людям](https://archiveofourown.org/works/786419) by [baley_jald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baley_jald/pseuds/baley_jald). 



> Warning: in Chapter 4, there's a remark showing Tony being prejudiced against Chinese people.
> 
> The original story is a crossover of Earth-70105 (bullet points) and Earth-55921 (ultimate iron man) that was written as a part of Big Bang challenge and therefore has some art that was made for it, go give it a look?
> 
> The translation was made for magicasen and Sineala as an apology for failing at Marvel Trumps Hate auction. I hope you'll enjoy it 
> 
> Many thanks to Antrodemus for beta-reading the first chapter. I still gave it another look, so all the remaining mistakes are my own.

The storm started shortly after midnight. Thunder, rattling windows, car alarms formed an unpleasant cacophony of sounds that reminded Steve of a battlefield. He looked at the street through a blurry window, then closed the curtain and turned back to his laptop. He looked at the ten or so tabs he had opened in his browser with scientific articles, news, historic chronicles, old pictures: all the things that he needed to know about this new world - a whole chasm of information. Steve closed the tabs and ran his tired hand through his hair. It was all highly unusual.

Reed appeared at the door, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, before coming in. "I don't like loud noises, they stop me from thinking and working."

Suddenly, a flash of lightning brightened up the room. Steve frowned: Reed was wearing pajama pants, but he also had a screwdriver behind his ear. Although, Steve shouldn’t have been surprised: Reed never went anywhere without his tools.

"Sue would be glad, though," Reed continued, "she said I should rest, right? But how can I rest, when the flight is so soon, and I haven't even finished the calculations, not to mention that I was going to check them, but there's just no time. Sometimes it seems..."

"Reed," Steve interrupted him, softly. "Did you need something?"

The man froze, blinked, adjusted his glasses, as if focusing the binocular.

"I... yes. How's your adaptation going? I mean... I don't spend enough time with you, and although Ben says everything's alright, and Sue says everything's alright," Reed sighed. "Sometimes I don't pay enough attention to people. Maybe that's why we broke up with Sue. But that's not the point. How are you?"

Steve shrugged.

"I'm reading," he said, pointing at the laptop. "It's remarkable how much stuff can happen in half a century."

"A lot of remarkable stuff, yeah?" Reed gave him an unsure smile, but then slouched and looked down. "I'm sorry you have to go through all of this."

It was probably Steve’s cue to say something soothing, something expected, like 'it's not your fault' or 'you didn't mean for this to happen', but he didn’t. It was, after all, Reed's fault that he, Steve Rogers, Iron Man, was stuck in the 21st century, in a world that was completely alien to him.

"I was thinking," Reed said, after a pause. "The apartment will be yours, well, after we leave for space."

Before Steve could say anything at all, Reed quickly threw up his hands. The act looked laughably awkward.

"No, don't argue. We will be gone for a really long damn time, and this is the least I can do. Fact."

The glass in the windows shuddered from another bout of thunder, and Steve noticed, to his surprise, that Reed winced.

"Are you afraid of storms?"

Reed shrugged.

"Loud noises," he repeated. "Alright, I won't distract you anymore. I need to check the calculations one more time. Victor will never stop mocking me, if he finds a mistake."

Reed turned around and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Steve brought his shoulders together, feeling the tension in his back, then looked at the screen of his laptop that went dark while they were talking. The only source of light now was the red glow of the reactor in his chest.

He didn't want to stay in an empty apartment. He didn't particularly want to stay in this world and time either (that thought was still hard to get used to), but he was very good at adapting.

The truth was, the first thing Steve felt in the 21st century was fear. An undoubtedly logical feeling, when you suddenly find yourself in a small room next to a skinny guy in a white lab coat. He automatically tried to attack, making the guy step back and put up his hands, and then somebody grabbed Steve from behind and pulled him away.

"Reed!"

Steve flinched and was gripped even harder.

"Reed, you said this thing wasn't turned on!"

The skinny guy - Reed, apparently - turned as white as his coat.

"It wasn't supposed to work," he said.

But it did, and mysteriously, Steve Rogers from December of 1941 appeared in May of 2012 in the home lab of the famous inventor Reed Richards.

The second thing Steve felt in the 21st century was the feeling of emptiness. Every morning he reached for his armor, as usual, and every morning he was met by silence - like a cut-off phone line, no dial tone, no background noise, nothing. That feeling woke Steve up in the middle of the night, sometimes, but he brushed off the embarrassing panic it caused him.

He didn't sleep well at all, in fact. A world that he didn't belong to stared coldly at him through the windows, and he had to keep living in it.

He was told the war was over. It was hard to believe - till the last moment Steve was sure he was captured by enemies and hypnotized so he’d betray the secrets and technologies he knew about. Ben (the one that grabbed him to stop from attacking, a friend of Reed's) even brought him to a war memorial in Washington. As they went there, Steve had a thought that the only constant was parks - the alley they were crossing looked the same as seventy years ago. People had changed, the technology had changed, the cities grew higher and covered themselves in neon lights, but the parks stayed the same. In the hurried, messy, fast world there were still people who cut the bushes to make them look round.

Once he started to believe this new world was real, the third feeling came along: uselessness. Steve was alien here, as the reactor was alien to his body, but as with the reactor, he had hoped that a long, arduous process of acclimating would somehow make him feel whole again.

Perhaps, the easiest realization was that Steve didn't lose anything beyond his purpose in life. In his world he had no friends left, no girlfriend, which somewhat surprised and reassured Ben, and no family. Nobody grieved his loss, other than the government that didn't have access to its expensive project anymore.

That thought, however, was hardly soothing.

Steve rubbed his temples. Reed said his condition resembled depression, but he also concluded that it was expected. Then again, Steve didn't particularly trust Reed's opinion. The man understood machines far better than humans.

When another flash of lightning came, Steve finally managed to fall asleep.

***

Ben found him in the kitchen. Considering that Steve just made coffee, he probably just followed the familiar smell. That was a funny thought.

"Look at that," Ben said cheerfully, and Steve smiled, since he saw no reason not to do that. "Somebody woke up in a good mood. Wanna go for a walk? To a museum or a movie theater?"

"A museum sounds nice," answered Steve.

He felt incredibly small next to Ben. Reed was taller than both of them, but he was also really thin, while Ben looked like a professional fighter or an athlete. He was also the first who, after Steve said he wanted to serve in the army again, honestly answered, 'sorry, man, but you look like you wouldn't be admitted even if there's no other choice'.

"I hoped you'd like to go see a movie," said Ben, disappointed, sipping his coffee. "I hate museums. Do you know what 3D is?"

Steve hesitated.

"No?" He half-asked and half-answered, and Ben gave him a wide smile.

"Then finish your drink and let's go. I want to be the first who..."

He was interrupted by loud ringing of the doorbell and the sound of Reed's heavy steps, who was most likely side-tracked on his way to the kitchen. Ben frowned, and Steve went quiet. In two weeks, nobody came here but Sue, and she had her own keys.

"Ramps, Richards!" somebody exclaimed in the corridor. "Ramps..."

"How did you even..." started Richards, but the intruder interrupted him.

"You know why I am thinking about ramps? Because when you and Sue finally have kids, she'll be the first, well, second, to hate you for their absence."

"We aren't together anymore," answered Reed in a dry voice. "Why are you..."

"What does it matter?" Something buzzed, and then there was soft rustling. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

Ben, who before now was silently listening to their banter, put his cup down on the table. 

"I'll kill that bastard," he sighed.

"Your wonder boy from the forties," their guest continued, undisturbed. "Don't play dumb with me, Reed, you can't lie. Well? Where? In the kitchen? Guessing by the panic in your eyes, I'm right. Move away, or I'll crush your feet."

Steve couldn't move. He tried to convince himself there was nothing scary about meeting strangers, - after all, he'd been living here for two weeks already, and sooner or later he'd have to go outside, but the strange feeling - like stage fright - didn't go away.

He tried to relax and look unruffled, but still almost visibly flinched when a man in a wheelchair appeared in the doorway. Reed, quiet and disheveled, stood behind him.

"Who told you anyway?" he asked.

"Johnny," the stranger shrugged. "He's very mad at you all, so you should be glad he only told me, and not the Daily Bugle. Hi, Ben. And this, I assume..." The man pointed at Steve with his cane. "Judging by the haircut, he's the thing." Steve's hand reflexively went to his light bangs, and the stranger smirked. "I'm Tony Stark, Reed's old friend. You're Steve, I'm guessing? You look surprisingly happy for the supposedly first person to travel through time."

"Through time and space," corrected Reed, absent-mindedly.

"A valuable contribution, Doctor Richards, what would we do without you," Tony Stark quipped back. "So, how was it?" he asked, voice full of sympathy. "Was it hard not to tell me all this time? That's alright, we fixed it."

Steve didn’t say a word. The first person not of this house that he met in this world was fast, loud and incomprehensible, just like the time he lived in. He looked the part as well - in a suit, with a strange foldable cane and a wheelchair that looked way more high-tech than it had any right to be. Steve probably wouldn't have been surprised to learn it could fly.

"I warned you," said Ben in a low threatening tone, "don't tell Johnny, it won't end well. And here you are, Tony Stark's in your kitchen. And why the hell are you in a wheelchair?"

"Just professional trauma," Tony brushed him off. "And don't blame Johnny, I got him drunk."

"What did you..."

"Hey, Steve, had these boring people showed you the world yet? Properly?" Stark continued, ignoring Ben's grimace. "Surely, not."

Ben was evidently going to answer for him, but Steve put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from talking and got up from his chair. 

"They showed me enough, Mister Stark," answered Steve, calmly.

"Look at that, he talks," Stark hummed. "And my name’s Tony."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment. 

He met all kinds of people at war, but their first reaction to him was always the same: he was either a weird guy in a metal suit who couldn't be trusted without second thoughts, or he was a small weakly boy who somehow got to a battlefield. In both cases, people expected him to prove his worth, and even in his time Steve was already quite tired of it.

"Leave him alone," said Reed. “Come with me, and I'll show you an idea I was thinking of for a while, I think you'll appreciate it."

"Just do it quickly," answered Tony. "You never know when to stop talking, and I'm going to Pym afterwards. So many geniuses around you can go crazy."

He turned the wheelchair around, quite awkwardly; one could guess he hadn’t gotten used to dealing with it just yet.

"Are you a genius, Steve?" Stark glanced back at him. "You look like one."

"I'm not," said Steve. "I'm a soldier."

Tony raised his eyebrows, but didn't have time for another quip - Reed pushed his wheelchair out of the kitchen. When the sound of the moving wheelchair was replaced by the voices from behind a closed door, Ben raised his shoulders.

"How are you?" He scratched the back of his head and looked down at Steve. "That wasn't supposed to be your first impression of this world."

"I'm alright. Who's Johnny?"

"A little bastard that’s going to lose his ears tonight!" Ben grumbled. "He's Sue's brother. Just a gift of a person."

"I see." Steve faltered, "is Tony really Reed's friend? It didn't look like they got along."

Ben rolled his eyes. 

"Show me someone Stark does get along with. If I had to make a list of people you should never have anything in common with, he'd be taking the first place."

They ate in silence. Steve didn’t really feel like doing it, but forced himself anyway, out of habit acquired during the war. After the breakfast, Ben put all the dirty dishes in the sink and grumbled: "I'm pretty sure Johnny will come today. I'll make him do all the dishes, just let him try and get away from it."

Somewhere in the flat, a loud crash was followed by Tony's unkind laughter. Steve squirmed. The new world was definitely more loud than the one he was used to.

Ben left the kitchen for a minute and came back with coats, one of which he threw at Steve.

"Get dressed, soldier," he snorted. "We'll sneak away while they're busy."

They managed to get to the front door, and Ben was just putting the key in the lock, when they heard a loud exclamation: "Where are you going?"

Steve couldn't see Ben's face, but the man visibly tensed. He swore under his breath and then turned around.

Tony looked at them with genuine hurt on his face. Reed stood next to him and did his best not to look curious.

"Grimm, are you trying to sneak away our McFly?"

"'M trying to save him from your company," grumbled Ben.

Judging by his face, Tony craved an upcoming row, but Steve decided to shut it down before it started. 

"We're going for a walk," he said. He couldn't look at Tony. His gaze, against his will, went to plaid covered legs, and that was certainly impolite, so instead Steve looked at some place between Tony's wheelchair and Reed's hand.

"I'll drive you," suggested Tony, wheeling his chair forward. Reed stayed behind.

"You're not...” Ben started, but Tony pushed him in the stomach with his cane.

"I'll drive," he repeated. "I have a delightfully huge car now, the chair doesn't fit into a sports car, and I didn't have time to assemble a new one."

Ben squeezed his teeth, but stepped away.

"Ramps," Tony said again. "Don't forget about them, Richards. And try to change the satellite's configuration for reception."

Tony got out of the corridor and waved his cane to draw Ben's attention.

"Will you help the invalid?" 

Ben sighed heavily.

"How did you get up, then?"

"Oh," Tony gave him a gleeful smirk. "You see what need does to people?"

Ben grimaced and pushed the elevator's button, while Tony was telling him something in a quiet voice.

Steve was just about to take the stairs, so he wouldn't take space in the small elevator cabin, but before he could leave, Reed grabbed him by the shoulder. It was an unexpected move for someone who did his best to avoid touching people.

"Steve," he whispered, "it's an awkward thing, but... could you do me a favor?"

Steve gave a cautious nod.

"Tony's going to Pym," said Reed. "Hank Pym, he's a scientist," he explained quickly, "he does remarkable things, I've heard of his latest inventions, and I just thought... could you come with Tony?"

Reed looked weirdly nervous. Steve only saw him like that once, when Sue announced that she's taking the whole thing – Steve’s adaptation and getting to know the world thing – under her control.

"I don't think he'll agree to it," said Steve.

He frowned and turned to look back, but Tony and Ben were already gone.

"Oh, trust me," answered Reed, absent-mindedly. "Hank won't let me in, he doesn't trust Victor, that's my partner. So we don't talk that much lately. But his research!"

"It’s remarkable," said Steve. "Yeah, I gathered. I'll try, but I won't promise anything. But even if I do get there..."

Reed gave a happy smile and a nod, and practically pushed Steve outside, not letting him finish.

"It’s likely I won’t understand a thing," finished Steve, already in the hall staring at the closed door. "Great."

***

A black minibus with toned windows was parked next to the house. For some reason, its smooth sides didn't reflect the sunlight, so it looked like a blemish against the background of the street, like a hole in reality. The doors were open, and there were removable rails placed to lead inside. A tall man in a dark suit stood next to the bus, his face impassive, but the gaze - tenacious, determined. Steve wondered, if he was a bodyguard.

"So, where am I taking you?" Tony cheerfully asked. Steve noticed that there was an inverse relationship between Tony's and Ben's moods: the happier Stark was becoming, the grimmer was Ben. "A museum? An opera house? A brothel?"

Tony turned his chair and wheeled it into the car without any problem. Next went Steve, and then Ben. 

"I'd like to meet Hank Pym," said Steve, and Tony snorted. He and Ben started talking almost simultaneously:

"Are you interested in ants?"

"Isn't that too many scientists for one day?"

Steve frowned, not knowing who to answer first.

"Ah," Tony hummed. "Reed's impossible to say no to, isn't he? Sorry, Grimm, you'll have to suffer through it, the guest's wish is my command. Happy, take us to Pym."

The car started smoothly and left the alley that Reed's house was in. New York fled past them from behind the dark windows, and Steve could barely tear his eyes away from it: he loved the city in either century he found himself in, and could probably watch it forever, if given the chance.

Tony was tapping the car's floor with his cane. The rubber cover of it absorbed any noise, but it still made Ben flinch nervously from time to time.

"You're a soldier," said Tony matter-of-factly. Steve didn't immediately understand he was addressed. "You said so. Don't take it the wrong way, though, but you have ‘unfit for duty' written all over yourself. What did you do to get accepted by the army? Are you a genius strategist? Or a technician?"

"I fought at the front lines," answered Steve.

He didn't want to talk about it, but the question itself, actually, was neither malicious, nor strange. He heard it many times before.

"And?" drawled Tony. "Why were you fighting at the front lines?"

"Stark," Ben, apparently, wasn’t fine with him pestering Steve. "Stop..."

Tony tensed, his face, quite lovely and classically beautiful, turned sharp. The change was fast and noticeable - even his eye color somehow seemed cold and spiky instead of the usual warm blue. Ben noticed it, too, and stopped talking.

"Steve's a grown-up," said Tony with a measured voice, which also sounded different from how he usually talked. "You're someone who's helping him adapt. You're not his babysitter, you're not his nurse, you're most assuredly not his mother or father," he paused for a moment, "Steve's capable of telling me no himself."

"I am telling you no," said Steve. "I'm not going to tell you why I was at the front lines."

Tony's gaze stopped at his face for a moment.

"See?" He leaned back and spread his hands. "A grown-up. Smart. I like it."

Ben mumbled something under his breath. Steve turned back to the window, but couldn't focus on the streets passing by: in the dark glass he could see the reflections of the chair's chromed side, part of its wheel and Tony's profile.

Steve saw invalids at war. He saw all kinds of people, who got hurt during action, and they usually fell into two categories: there were those, who bore their wounds with pride, like you wear medals, and then there were those, who shuffled instead of walking, dragging the life they didn't feel they needed anymore behind them. Tony looked like he didn't care. Like the trauma, that put him in the wheelchair, was just an unfortunate mishap.

They arrived quickly. Steve expected another apartment, perhaps, as small and cluttered as the one Reed had, but what he saw instead was a giant complex of milky-white buildings. Steve squinted and read the name, and while it didn't precisely tell him anything, he got the gist of it: this was a state-run research facility. It made sense for scientists to be here.

"Welcome," said Ben, while they were getting out of the car. "This is the place where the world's destiny gets determined. All the development and tech that surprises you so much."

Steve looked again at the building, with renewed interest.

"What a grand introduction," Tony snorted. He wasn't as tense anymore, and he smirked, waving his cane. "This is the place where a whole bunch of people in white coats research millions of things that nobody cares about, Steve. Boring. The most important discoveries are made at home, in the kitchen."

Tony adjusted something in the wheelchair's controls and moved forward, leaving behind the car, Happy and Ben, who said that he's living with Reed, and so Pym is holding a grudge against him as well. Besides, white walls made him sick.

"I hope," he grumbled, "that for once you won't run into any trouble."

They were let inside without questions, the sight of Tony's raised eyebrow was all it took. The spacious, shining corridors had huge, taller than human, windows, the sight of which somehow disturbed Steve. This place, like any open, hardly protected territory, was dangerous: too many people, too few places to hide in, and glass. The smallest explosion would... Steve shook his head.

They stopped next to steel doors of the elevator that Tony brought them to. The guard was punching some numbers into the panel and arguing with someone on the radio. Steve leaned on the wall and looked around.

"Interesting," said Tony.

"What?" answered Steve. He could feel the almost evaluating gaze of the man with his skin and tried to ignore it.

"Your behavior." Tony tapped the arm of his wheelchair. "You behave like Rhodey."

Steve decided not to ask if it was supposed to be an insult. The guard finally came to a compromise with someone, and the elevator's doors opened.

"Doctor Pym's expecting you," he said.

The lab reminded Steve of quite a few unpleasant things in his past, and he touched his chest. He could feel the reactor even through the hoodie: the cloth slid on the surface of it and chilled his fingertips. He got used to living with the thing, but didn't quite learn to trust it - sometimes he felt, as if he was drowning, choking, unable to fill his lungs with air. Steve had to remind himself how to breathe and to push away the stupid thoughts.

The lab they came into was probably just one big room at some point that later got divided into two. In the antechamber, the equipment was stuck on top of each other, haphazardly and seemingly without a system. There’s been a screen, a hanger with white coats, a couple of safe vaults and book shelves that no books on them, but a large aquarium with ants instead. Steve stopped, looking at the insects running through gel tunnels.

"Do you like it?"

Steve flinched and turned around. There was a petite woman with long black hair standing in front of him. She smiled an extended her hand.

"Janet van Dyne." Her palm was cold, and the handshake somewhat unsure. "Are you here for Hank?"

"I do like them," Steve answered, trying to be consistent and precise, which he did every time he didn't feel confident. "Steve Rogers. Yes."

"I don't know you," she said with another smile.

Steve looked down, embarrassed. It wasn't even that he didn't know how to talk to women, the army teaches you a lot of things, and one time soldiers, grateful for the rescue, even took him to a brothel. It was more that he really didn't know anyone here; he barged into other people's place and didn't even know, why.

A helping hand was extended by Tony just at the right time.

"Hello, beauty," he said. "You're looking wonderful this sunny day, why are you staying inside?" His voice seemed to Steve much warmer now. "Don't answer that, though, don't break my heart."

"Tony," Janet answered in a puzzled voice. "Why are you in a wheelchair?"

"'Cause it's Tuesday," Tony said, as if that explained anything.

At that moment, the door opened, and a huge cage passed through, the person holding it barely visible behind it. Janet excused herself and rushed to help put it in one of the vaults.

"This is Hank Pym," Tony announced. "A genius, a boring person, and an insectophile. Do you know, what that means, Steve? I hope not."

Hank looked at them, adjusted the coat hanging from his shoulder and frowned.

"Tony," he said, "what are you doing here?"

"Guiding a tour," answered Tony, unperturbed. "Trying to charm your girlfriend. Nothing criminal. You should take Janet out more often, you know."

"I'm right here," remarked Janet.

She didn't sound displeased by it, more flirtatious. The girls in the dance rooms used to talk like that, Steve recalled, when soldiers were asking them to dance. They almost always refused Steve.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hank folded his arms and nodded at Steve, "who's that?"

"Reed's friend," Tony answered, and Hank's look caused goose bumps along Steve’s back. "Don't attack him, he's new here. Look at what I brought you, though."

Tony took a box out of his pocket and put it on a table. Hank took and opened it, still frowning. The ritual looked weird, but Steve didn't know too much about scientists' habits. Maybe, that was how they were supposed to behave.

Quite unexpectedly and untimely, Steve got curious, as to who this weird Tony Stark person was. At first, Steve thought he was a businessman, probably because of his bodyguard and his expensive suit. Now, though, he was more inclined to think that Tony was someone that inventors - like Reed and Hank - sold his designs to. He wondered if there was a special word for it.

From where he was standing, Steve saw that the box was lined with soft black material inside, like the one used for eyeglass cases. There were two flasks there - one with some clear liquid and another with deep-red one. 

"What do you want?" asked Hank.

"I want you to test your particles on my nanobots."

Hank frowned.

"I..." he started, but Tony interrupted him:

"Keeping all the properties, of course."

Hank said nothing for almost a minute, and then he slowly dragged his hand through his hair and sighed.

"Alright, let's go," he said, "it'll take long, of course, but..."

"I was waiting for that 'but'," Tony gave him a winning smile, switching levers on his wheelchair without looking. "Lead on, genius."

"Don't knock anything of," Hand muttered, "also, why are you..."

"Not a word."

Steve was going to follow them, but Tony shook his head.

"Sorry, man, this part is tickets only. Entertain Janet with war stories while we're gone."

Steve might've imagined it, but he thought Hank slammed the door behind them with extra prejudice.

It was all rather confusing. In the past weeks, Steve got used to a slow, aloof life, almost like in the years before the war. Reed could hardly be called a good conversationalist, Sue came by only a couple of times, and Ben had his own stuff to do. Steve knew what to do alone, and he knew what to do during a war.

But what do you do, when you're appointed a messenger?

"He's not always like that," said Janet. "Although whom am I kidding."

The box that she and Hank put on a vault suddenly twitched, and there was a strange rustling noise coming from it. Steve frowned.

"Is it..." he drawled.

"Yeah, animals for the research," Janet nodded. "Greenpeace is weeping. Okay, why should we stay here, while those two are having all the fun?" She grabbed Steve by the elbow. "Let's go take a walk."

Hearing her words, Steve imagined going through endless lab corridors, but that wasn't what Janet had in mind.

The view of the city from the roof was marvelous, but Steve was more drawn to the helicopters - the shadows from their wide blades were drawing lines on the ground. If they had these machines during the war...

Janet calmly went by them, like she walked here a thousand times, and sat on the edge of the roof, letting her legs down. Steve stood behind her, with his hands in his pockets.

He could see the mini-bus they came here in, grey lines of the roads, parks and houses - endless tall buildings stretching to the sky, as if trying to outgrow each other. New York these days looked like a giant beast with glorious stone skin covered in moss. And even the color of the sky seemed different to Steve. Maybe, it was just that during the war he forgot how to look at it and not expect to see enemy jets.

"War stories?" Janet asked, suddenly. She threw her head back and was looking at Steve upside down. "Tony said that. Are you really a soldier?"

"Yes," answered Steve.

He expected Janet to keep asking questions, but she just snorted quietly.

"Have you known Reed for long?" she asked instead.

"Two weeks," Steve gave an honest answer, and Janet laughed.

She was very pretty: small, fragile, but also alive and lively. The wind was shuffling her hair, but it didn't mess it up, it was falling like a beautiful dark wave over her white lab coat. Janet van Dyne was happy, and she was safe, because the war was over long ago, and Steve felt a strange pride, as if he was the one who dragged her - or her mother - ages ago from under enemy fire.

"You have a funny face," Janet said. Steve got conscious of the fact he was just staring at her and looked away. He didn't know if it was alright to look straight at a girl these days, or if he just broke some rules. "Oh, is that Ben Grimm?"

Steve came to the edge of the roof. Ben was walking down below, stretching his back.

"He should've come in," said Janet, somewhat disappointed. "Hank was looking for someone to pick a fight with about Reed."

"Why?" asked Steve.

"'Cause it's Hank," Janet explained. She was still smiling, but her smile wasn’t as wide as before. "That's his way of communicating with the world. He just needs to be jealous of someone. I'm sure he'll drag you into it as well."

"I think he didn't really like me."

"See!"

Janet suddenly got up and spread her hands, letting the wind blow in her face. She reminded Steve of some fairytale character, but it's been awhile since he believed fairy tales, so now it just made him nervous.

"Careful," he warned.

There was probably something in his voice that made Janet turn around and step away from the roof's edge.

"I always wanted to fly," she admitted. "I know there's skydiving, but that's falling, not flying, and I just wanted..." Janet looked at the sky. "I don't know. Freedom? To feel the wind? What do you think?"

"I flew," Steve said on a reflex, and mentally reprimanded himself for not watching his words.

He just spent a few minutes talking to a pretty girl, and was already giving away war secrets. Great.

"What do you mean?" Janet asked.

"I'm afraid that's classified," Steve was finding it hard to choose words and making pauses in his speech. "Sorry."

They went quiet. Steve looked at the city, at Ben walking down below, and at Janet - just with the corner of his eye. For the first time since he came to this world, he wanted to draw something.

Something in his pocket started buzzing.

"Steve," Janet called, "your phone's ringing."

Steve blinked. The phone - a small plastic contraption with a bright screen - Ben gave him the moment they left the house. He said that was a way of contacting him and promised to show how to use, but didn't really come about to do that.

He patted his pockets, took out the phone and gave a string of numbers on the screen a puzzled gaze.

"What is it?" Janet asked curiously and looked from behind his shoulder. "Oh, unknown number? What are you waiting for, answer!"

Steve pressed a button.

"Finally," Tony sighed, "where have you gone?"

"We're on the roof," answered Steve, simply. "How do you know my number?"

"Found it in a phonebook." Steve could almost hear Tony's smirk. "Bring Janet back, or Hank'll bite off my head, and I'm not quite sure I can grow a new one. I don't even wanna try."

He disconnected. Janet immediately snatched the phone away from Steve, pressed a couple of buttons and gave it back, saying: 

"I put my number in, call me. If Hank answers, just say you're Tony."

Steve wanted to protest - it was quite evident now that Hank and Janet were together, and less than anything he wanted to be a cause of some unpleasantness. Janet, though, just clapped him on the shoulder.

"Relax, I just want to be friends. All the science talk makes my head spin, and Hank doesn't really get why you’d try to talk about anything else."

She stretched, getting on her tiptoes, and shook her head. 

"Well? Let's go?"

"I thought you were working with Hank," noticed Steve. Janet laughed.

"Do I look that smart? Nah, I just keep him company, or he'll drive everyone crazy with his nagging." Janet made a funny grimace. "Jesus, I'll put a stake in my own chest if I start understanding half of what Hank usually talks about."

Steve smiled, almost against his will, and followed her.

He stopped for a moment next to the stairwell leading down from the roof and looked back. He could see the bright blue sky from here, crossed by a couple of tall buildings. The air smelt of mown grass, of dust and metal - those were smells of peaceful life, and in that moment, more than ever before, Steve felt alien to this world. He moved his shoulders, trying to shake off that unpleasant feeling, and started climbing down the stairs.

Tony and Hank were waiting for them at the lab's doors. 

"The wayward son returns," Tony announced, his voice mocking. Hank frowned, and Janet passed Steve by and tapped Hank on his cheek lovingly, which required her to get up on her tiptoes. Hank tried to move away, but Janet grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, forced him to lean down and started whispering something, almost touching his ear with her lips. Steve tactfully looked away.

"Let's go, Steve," Tony said, not unkindly. "I think I at least owe you lunch."

Outside, just at the exit, Steve suddenly turned around and looked back at the lab. Tony froze next to him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I think this whole thing was pretty useless," said Steve. "I don't have anything to tell Reed."

"Stand down, soldier," Tony hummed. He took something from his pocket and threw it to Steve, who barely managed to catch it. "That's a USB-drive for Reed. He'll be happy as a pig."

Steve already knew what USB-drives were, as well as CDs. A computer was the second device Steve learned to use in this world, and the most important one, if you ignore coffee-machines, of course.

"Thank you," Steve said, earnestly.

Tony gave him a strange look, but didn't answer, and just waved at his car.

Ben treated them like a mother welcoming home her misbehaving children, and the first thing he did was examining Steve from all sides.

"What were you even looking for?" asked Tony, when they were already in the car. "Traces of evil experiments? Grimm, stop mother-henning him. You have Reed, he needs it more."

"What do you know," grunted Ben.

He looked tired, and Steve had an unpleasant thought that he probably ruined some of the man’s plans. Ben didn't really need to follow and take care of him. Steve was a burden. It was probably time he did something about that.

"It's alright," said Steve. "I wasn't the one in danger of having my head bit off."

Ben frowned, and Tony smirked at that. 

"Alright," he squinted like a pleased cat. "I have an italian place in mind, how about we go there?"

Ben's visible cheered up, and Steve hurried to answer:

"I'm in."

"I'd take you to the most expensive restaurant in New York, just to see your face, but I can't," Tony grinned and tapped the arm of his wheelchair. "Disability's usually good for the reputation, but, I'm afraid, not in my case. Happy," he exclaimed, "you know where we're going."

***

At night, Steve sat on his bad and looked at the clock. It was old, with a big white face, slightly glowing in the dark. Next to most of Reed's tech it seemed unnecessary and even inappropriate, but Steve liked it, maybe because its loud ticking broke up the thick silence of the room. 

Steve was planning on doing something, like reading an article, or a book, but he just couldn't make himself move. He couldn't even fall asleep, although it was nearing 2 am. He felt as if for the first time in two weeks he finally accepted that he was never going to come home.

Steve was used to thinking of himself as a man of the present, but now he was lost, because his present was left far behind. He was scared. He was empty and lonely.

To distract himself, Steve laid down and took his mobile. The screen showed a notification for a new message, and Steve blinked in confusion.

'This is Janet. Do you want to go somewhere tomorrow? Hank has a symposium and only the smart ones are allowed in.'

Steve looked at the message for almost a minute, then parted his fingers, letting the phone fall on the bed, and closed his eyes.


	2. Can insects love?

The door was open. Steve froze, all possible scenarios turning around in his head: Sue and him were the only ones with keys, but she and her brother followed Reed into space. Perhaps, they were back, or the flight got cancelled, or Reed needed something from the house. It was equally likely, however, that somebody broke in. The lock looked untouched, but it didn't lessen Steve’s suspicions. He slowly opened the door, walked in and raised his eyebrows in surprise. There was a distinct smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, and the TV was turned on. Steve thought that even the craziest burglars in the world wouldn't be this cheeky. 

Tony was sitting at the kitchen table.

Steve cursed himself for being so slow. After all, as he approached the house, he did notice a car, so bright that it made the rest of the world seem colorless in comparison. He could've put two and two together faster.

"Finally, you’re back," said Tony, not taking his eyes off the newspaper. "I was waiting for half an hour, even had time to repair the TV. You did know it was broken, right?"

"Sorry?"

Ben often complained about the TV, but Reed always forgot about his promise to repair it. Steve didn't care; he only really liked laptops from all the tech that he got to experience here.

Steve reluctantly looked at the TV: the news was talking about a damaged gas pipeline in Sandy Valley. The footage showed grey wreckage of a crumbled building and reporters trying to take an interview from a shocked man.

Tony crumpled a corner of the paper in his hand to look at Steve.

"Charge your phone sometimes."

"My phone?" Steve asked again, feeling like an utter idiot.

Oh, yes. His phone.

Tony's eyebrows went up in a very telling way, and he put the paper away. There was a small black device on the table that Steve completely forgot about. If Reed had a reason to call, he called the landline, so Steve didn't really have a need for a mobile.

Steve didn't see Tony since they went together to Hank and Janet. A lot had happened in the month since then, not as much as would in the forties, of course, but still enough. Steve had his ID made, found a job, learned to navigate this world and stopped finding himself so often in stupid situations involving ATMs and subway. If you asked him, he thought he was managing everything quite well. Except for this nonsense with the phone, apparently.

"How did you get here?" Steve asked warily. He still stood in the doorway, unsure of his next move.

Tony, on the other hand, was irritatingly calm, as if breaking into other people's houses was just the natural order of things for him. He wore a formal black suit, so Steve would've thought that he arrived straight from a conference, except by now internet had already convinced him that Stark had been following his own personal dress-code. He had white gloves on his hands, and that little detail looked so inappropriate as if Tony was trying to mock him. What kind of person even wears white gloves in their normal life?

"I picked up the lock with a screwdriver," answered Tony.

"That's illegal," Steve said, making his guest snort.

"Said the guy from the forties?"

That was not quite fair: Steve wasn't at fault for what happened to him.

"Chin up," said Tony, amused, "and stop picking at me, being boring doesn’t suit you."

"I..." started Steve, but fell silent.

Something was making him uneasy, some kind of detail that stood out from the norm and didn't let him focus on the conversation. The kitchen was fine, the noise from the TV wasn't distracting enough, and Steve just couldn't understand what was it, until he looked at Tony again. There was no wheelchair.

"You're not disabled," Steve blurted out.

Tony looked at him, surprised.

"How charmingly direct," he said, standing up. "I love it.”

After they first met, Steve immediately decided he wanted to learn at least something about this new person, and internet dumped a ton of information on him: pictures, accusatory articles, variations of his biography that completely contradicted each other. Tony Stark was a darling of fate, a genius inventor, one of the richest people in the world. Reading this, Steve couldn't shake the feeling that he was falling down a tunnel at an impossible speed. At some point Steve even doubted if he was reading about the right Tony Stark.

It also didn't say anywhere that he was disabled, but Steve attributed that to a recent trauma. Tony was apparently not all that willing to share information about his life with the press.

"I'm sorry," Steve said in an uncertain voice. "I didn't know you..."

"Jesus, Steve, leave it." Tony came closer and put his hands on his chest. He was taller than Steve, but it didn't feel like Tony was crowding him. "That's cute, really."

"I don't want to seem impolite, but you didn't just come here to charge my phone, did you?"

Tony smirked.

"I would be the most expensive charger in the world. Do you even know how much an hour of my time costs?" He scratched his chin. "At a second thought, don't imagine it. Do you wanna walk?"

Actually, Steve wanted to stay at home, but it seemed impolite to refuse someone who came all this way just for him, so he shrugged.

"Sure, why not?"

"Excellent," said Tony. He went to the exit, and Steve looked at his legs against his will – Tony didn't even have a limp.

What kind of trauma could put a person in a wheelchair and then completely disappear in a month?

"Did Reed ask you to come?" asked Steve while they were going down the stairs. He couldn't see Tony's face, just his back, but the shoulders translated his amusement well enough.

"Reed's a great guy, but he's most likely convinced he's doing you a favor by leaving you in an empty flat all alone," Tony turned his head and gave him a wide smile. "You know, silence, no annoying people around, nothing stopping you from doing science. The fact that not all people are scientists on this planet skips his head all the time, and it's no use explaining that to him." Tony took a breath. "In other words, nope, I came on my own."

Steve hummed. He liked Reed, even though it was his fault Steve ended up here. But it was impossible to be mad at the man, or even upset. It was as if Reed existed in his own cocoon, and regular human emotions penetrated it with some delay.

Tony pressed a key button next to a parked car and waved his hand at it.

"Get in," he said. Steve sat on a passenger sit and carefully closed the door. The car looked like the money from selling it would be enough to feed a small African country.

Then again, Steve didn't really know enough about cars to judge, since he liked them much less than motorcycles. 

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Got any requests?" Tony drove into the roadway almost without looking and pushed the gas. Steve expected the car to jerk from such treatment, but it started quite smoothly.

"None."

"Then we're going to my place."

***

Tony's home looked nothing like his owner. Steve expected something modern, made of glass and plastic, and not this traditional, almost Victorian mansion with a front gate and ivy on the walls. Steve wasn't even surprised when they were met at the door by the butler – unlike Tony, the tall lean man with a straight back matched the house quite well.

"Sir," the butler bowed.

"Jarvis," said Tony, "this is Steve. I'd say you'll get along, but I don't like to share. Steve, have you eaten?" Without waiting for Steve’s answer, he addressed Jarvis again, "make us some snacks, we'll be in the drawing room."

Tony rushed inside, and Steve gave Jarvis a guilty look. He didn't have any experience communicating with servants and had no idea, how he was supposed to act.

"Follow Master Tony, sir," Jarvis smiled. "I'll take care of everything. Do you want me to take your outer clothes?"

Steve shook his head, adjusted his hoodey and went inside. At Reed's flat, when there were no people around, he dressed much lighter, but having to hide the reactor forced him to put on extra layers of fabric.

The old traditional room Steve found himself in looked like it belonged in the last century, just like him. There was even a fireplace. Tony already took off his jacket and threw it on the back of a chair that he was now occupying. 

"What do you think about the house?"

"It's unexpected," answered Steve. "It looks... very old."

"Is that good or bad?" Tony turned his head to give him a questioning look. "I thought you'd find it cozy. All the old stuff, layers of dust, right?"

"You're insulting my work, Master Tony," said Jarvis.

He entered with a silver tray (for some reason, Steve didn't have any doubts it was actual silver) with a couple of plates of snacks.

"I wouldn't dare," said Tony. "Thanks, we'll figure out the drinks ourselves. What will you have, Steve?"

He easily got up from a chair and went to an antique bar in the corner of the room.

"I'd rather not drink," said Steve.

He kind of felt nervous. Steve was never good at talking to people, and here, in Tony's house, he was feeling weirdly uncomfortable. He felt a strong urge to ask, what he needed to do, where was the catch, and he had to fight it down with quite a considerable effort.

"Milk?" Tony suggested with a smirk. "You're probably wondering why I brought you here. Sit down."

Steve went around the second armchair and sat down. It was so big and soft, that at first Steve almost drowned in it, so when Tony came back, he was perched on its edge, trying to look as comfortable as he possibly could despite not feeling like it at all.

For some reason, he almost felt dizzy, even though the air in the room was fresh, and it only smelt of furniture polish and something heavy, like books in leather bindings. It also smelt of Tony's cologne – the smell was subtle, but undoubtedly there.

"I'll explain," Tony put the bottle on the carpet next to his armchair and straightened his back. "I'm intrigued. This thing could've chosen anyone – Hitler, Dante, Da Vinci, some unimaginable being from another universe, a regular passerby, or a psychopath from a prison, but it chose you. Why?"

Steve shrugged.

"I think you better ask Reed that," he said.

"I don't think you're that simple," noticed Tony with disarming honesty. "Are you glad you escaped the war?"

No.

"Yes." The dizziness was getting worse, and Steve felt nauseated, but he forced himself to look like nothing was amiss.

"You're like a living history textbook that doesn't have dementia," that words sounded almost like an insult, but Tony probably didn't mean it that way. "You had friends, acquaintances, your own life. Reed said you had officer's stripes on your uniform."

"Captain's," Steve specified.

He was covered in cold sweat. Was it allergy? Poisoned gas? But why would Tony Stark poison him?

"Captain Rogers?" Tony snorted quietly and sipped his drink. "So, you were fighting for a couple of years and got to captain. How?"

"I," Steve swallowed, "I already told you I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay," Tony easily conceited. "War secrets, and all that? But the war's over. More than that, the war that you came from wasn't the one that happened in this world."

Why was he feeling so bad? Of course, Steve could never brag about having excellent health, but these sudden bouts of dizziness weren't normal even for him. He closed his eyes and tried to mentally count from ten to one, but with every number he was just feeling worse. The feeling, however, seemed somehow familiar, and he frowned, trying to remember, till all of the sudden, the realization hit him. It was the armor, calling for him.

Of course, saying it called for him wasn't quite the right word, but it was trying to reach the control center in Steve's chest. He forgot this feeling, because, before he was dragged here, he was always connected to it, and that connection was so essential to him he got used to not noticing it anymore.

"Steve?" asked Tony.

The armor was here, somewhere really close. Steve clenched his hands together and breathed out brokenly, trying to control himself with no success. Steve wasn't in the armor when he got brought here, and he never felt it since. Was Reed lying to him? Maybe there was never even a Reed, and he was captured, and the enemies were trying to get to the classified information he had? The last intelligence reports said hypnosis could easily do things like that.

"Hey," Tony said again with worry in his voice. "You're getting pale. I won't ask anything anymore, if you don't want me to."

The world was drifting away from him, like it does when you press your eyelids down too hard. Steve carefully got up, grabbing the arm of the chair to steady himself, and looked around.

The only way to learn the truth was to find the armor.

Steve listened to that feeling, trying to figure out what way he should be going. The armor was somewhere in the house. He went through the room, unsteadily, noticing Tony getting up in the corner of his eye, opened the door and went into the corridor. It was like a game, the only thing missing was Tony exclaiming 'hot' and 'cold'. The man didn't say anything, though, just looked at Steve with caution, making no attempts to stop him.

Steve reached the 'hot' area, went through the glass doors and stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?" Tony grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "You can't come here, Rogers."

This was the first time Steve saw Tony touch people, but he had no time to feel surprised, as in this moment Steve felt himself being twisted from the inside. The armor found him. Steve felt it, and it felt Steve.

He was used to thinking of armor as of something alive, like people sometimes think about their favorite cars or motorcycles, but this one was hostile, from a different time and a different world. Steve didn't even really know what was hiding behind those doors. But the armor found him, and the surprise feeling of it twisted him, and Tony's fingers were squeezing his shoulder so hard it felt like they almost dislocated it. Steve turned around, wheezing through his tightened throat, and Tony snatched his hand away, as if scared.

"What did you do?" he hissed frantically. "How did you do it?"

Steve shook his head. He was breathing as if he just ran a mile, and his knees were shaking.

"Who are you?" Now Tony really looked scared. "Are you even human?"

"I'm human," Steve insisted. "I'm just..."

"Let it go," suddenly ordered Tony. He was still standing with his hand raised stupidly in the air, as if he wanted to touch but couldn't for some reason. "Let it go, or it'll kill you."

The whole thing was absurd. It couldn't happen, just couldn't, other than in someone's nightmare or a perverted fantasy.

"What is it?"

Tony went around him, dialed a combination on a panel and pushed the door. It opened to a workshop, or something alike, Steve couldn't quite see – everything was blurry.

"It recognized a controller in you," Tony muttered. "That's impossible, at least, for the forties. Do you have implants?"

Steve swayed and grabbed the edge of a table, looking at the room with unseeing eyes. He might've even noticed the armor already, but he just couldn't focus his gaze on it for a while.

It had little in common with a huge clunky machine Steve was used to; it was much more sophisticated, more human-like. Steve couldn't control it. He could feel it – as much as it could feel him – but he couldn't control it. All the usual commands left the hunk of metal unmoving.

Somebody from the outside was trying to sever their connection, and Steve got scared.

"Steve," Tony stepped in front of the armor and shook him again, grabbing his shoulders, this time with much more force behind it. "Let it go. Let it go so we can figure it out."

Steve blinked and shook his head, not quite sure if he was agreeing or arguing against it. It took all his willpower to stay conscious, so he could hardly answer even if he tried. The thoughts in his head condensed to just two: the armor was protection; to lose the armor was to lose it.

"That's an order, soldier!" Tony suddenly barked at him.

Steve let it go. He couldn't not obey, obeying orders was now one of his primal instincts. He would've probably obeyed even unconscious. The void that engulfed him rang in his ears, and Steve, weakened by it, fell in Tony's hands, trying to get his bearings. 

He came back to it on a small couch, but didn't even have time to get up – someone's hands pushed him down again.

"Lie down," said Tony, quietly. "It's okay. Just lie down." 

Steve looked around and noticed that they were still in the workshop, and the armor was still near. He had to just slightly reach for it, and it would answer at once.

Tony, probably only now noticing that he touched Steve, jerked his hands away and looked at them as if they did something wrong.

"I think," said Steve, "we should talk."

"I'm all ears," Tony answered. He moved away.

A thought crossed Steve's mind, that he only met this person twice, and yet both times were filled with more action than weeks, months that Steve stayed in this world. Being with Tony was like being back there, at the front, - dangerous, unpredictable, without a minute to slow down and think. Then again, maybe, Steve was just seeing what he wanted to see.

"Why do you have the armor?"

"How could you connect to it?" Tony immediately asked back. "How do you even know what it is? Did you have big human-like robots in the forties?" He rubbed his nose. "Did you have laser swords as well?" Despite trying to joke, Tony looked deadly serious. Steve sighed.

"That's classified." He threw up his hand before Tony could interrupt. "The things I'll tell you can never leave this room."

Tony stepped back and raised his eyebrow – either ironically, or condescendingly, Steve couldn’t quite tell. He decided not to pay it any attention.

"During the second world war," Steve started, looking at some point above Tony's shoulder, "there was a project called Rebirth. I'm not a scientist, so I don't know much about it, but it had something to do with a serum that could increase person's strength and endurance. They would get a super soldier, maybe even an army of super soldiers that could beat the fascist army."

Steve's fingers touched the zipper of his hoodey, and he pulled the handle down and started to take it off. Tony's eyebrow went even higher, but he still didn't say anything.

"The project was closed, because the head scientist was killed, and the serum was never finished," Steve continued, "but they didn't give up, and a new project, Iron Man, was started. I was offered to take part in it."

"Iron Man," Tony echoed his words. "Figures."

Steve nodded.

"They made a suit of armor, and I became its pilot. One of a kind," Steve gave an awkward chuckle. "It was connected to me, and I – to it. Forever. With this."

His fingers got caught in the shirt's buttons, and he tried to stop them from shaking, but couldn't quite manage that. Only the doctors saw the reactor before, and Steve never thought he would be one day showing it to a civilian. 

At least, Tony didn't faint. Instead, to Steve's surprise, he whistled.

"Wow," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. "Is that the control center? Implanted into your body? Wow. Your military guys were creative. How does it work?"

Steve pulled the shirt around himself, trying to fight the embarrassment he was feeling. It was pathetic and undignified, but, in Steve's opinion, it wasn’t really proper to boast about an ugly thing in your chest.

"Wait," Tony stopped him, "don't hide it."

"It's a reactor," Steve explained. He folded his hands on his lap, feeling positively ridiculous. "Yeah, it's a control center and a power source. I... I gave mental orders to the armor, and it listened to me."

"That's artificial intelligence. Holy crap. Your world must look so much cooler than ours seventy years later. I'd give anything to see it."

He swayed back and forth on his heels and started pacing in front of the couch.

"My baby noticed you, but didn't quite understand what you are. You two are incompatible systems, I suppose. Holy crap," he repeated. "I got my hands on a treasure."

Steve frowned, uncomprehending. Stark’s reaction was surprising, and he didn't quite want to know why precisely the man was so excited.

"How did they implant it? How does it even work, do you need to think a certain way? Are there commands? Codes? Mental Morse code? That's too many questions. Alright."

Tony ran his hand across his forehead in a nervous gesture and finally stopped.

"You wanted to know something."

"Why do you have the armor?" Steve immediately asked.

"Oh," Tony gave him a crooked grin. "That's kind of my wheelchair. Upgraded, with cool functions like flight."

That looked more like an excuse than straight answer, but Steve didn't remark on that. He put his legs down and started to button up his shirt, looking straight ahead.

"No, wait." Steve raised his head. Tony was looking at him and biting his lower lip. "I was fourteen or fifteen, don't remember, I was bored, and I thought... Seriously. Nothing special."

"You assembled it?"

Tony nodded.

Best minds of America were struggling on Steve's armor, trying to make a union between a human and a machine possible; trying to make something that could change the course of the war. Tony Stark made the perfect machine because he was bored.

There was something ironic about that, but Steve couldn't quite grasp it.

"I can introduce you, if you want," Tony suggested, "although I'll get jealous if it likes you more than me."

Steve quickly glanced at the armor, at Tony, whose whole face was trying to show how serious he was, and shook his head.

"You're impossible."

"Said a man with a reactor in his chest. Talk about being impossible."

It only now dawned on Steve that Tony was the first person he told his secret. Iron Man's identity was highly protected: only a couple of people in the government knew that a small young man, whom all the soldiers were laughing at at any opportunity, was piloting the armor of everyone's favorite hero. An endless supply of missions and tasks robbed Steve of everything, and no, he didn't mind that, he volunteered to make that sacrifice, and he would’ve absolutely done it again, because it was worth it. But sometimes, when his thoughts weren't occupied by the next mission, or when his mind wasn't being ripped apart by exhaustion, Steve thought that he was missing something important – a friend, an assistant, a beloved woman, or a mentor, it was hard to say. Steve didn't have anybody. Steve didn't even have himself, not really. Iron Man, with all his insides, belonged to the government.

"Hey," Tony called, softly, "I'm joking, don't take it like that."

"I don't..." Steve got up and stepped towards him "You... Thank you."

"For what?" asked Tony with genuine surprise in his voice. "It was probably really hard to keep silent all this time. I have..."

"Why do you hide your hands?" Steve interrupted him. He’d talk about anything rather than his issues.

The question clearly puzzled Tony. He flinched, probably fighting an urge to look at his hands, and shrugged.

"I'm king Midas," he answered. "Everything I touch turns to gold. So. I have an idea."

He went around Steve and stood next to the armor hanging in the alcove. Nothing happened for a couple of seconds, and then the armor's dark eye sockets glowed with soft blue light.

"The server is activated," the armor said in a mechanic voice.

Steve shuddered, and Tony grinned at him.

"If you'll let me," he said, "I can reprogram your controller and tie it to the armor. Or, maybe, even make a new one."

"Why?" Steve asked, tired.

The day was exhausting, more than any attack he ever had to carry out, and he seriously didn't understand why Tony still bothered with him. The man in question frowned.

"What do you mean, why? You're a pilot, you need to pilot things. And I have the armor for it."

"Why do you need this?" Steve was starting to get angry, and the attempts to fight that feeling just made him even more so. "Are you curious? Bored?"

Tony turned his whole body towards him. The armor repeated the action, and now two pairs of eyes were looking at Steve: one evaluating him, and one uncaring.

"What do you care for my motives, captain Rogers?"

"The war's over," Steve answered simply, and Tony gave a short laugh.

"You need motivation? Just read crime news."

Tony moved his shoulders, and the armor turned off. He paced around the workshop, took an empty glass from a table and a bottle with golden liquid from a shelf.

"I'm not forcing you," he said. "You want to work in your artsy shop, be my guest."

"How do you even..."

"You're unique," Tony interrupted him and raised his glass. Steve wasn’t quite clear if that was him making a toast, or accusing him. "You're unique even now, yet you probably think you're useless."

Steve turned away.

The armor wasn't looking at him anymore, it was once again unmoving, perfect, and most likely incredibly dangerous. Steve could hardly appreciate all its potential, but even the bits and pieces of information he managed to get during their short connection showed him what a powerful weapon it was.

"That's like fighting pigeons with a tank," he said.

"What are you on about?"

"I regularly read crime news." Steve went to the couch, took his hoodey and crumpled it in his hands. "But going against thieves and burglars in that?" Steve waved at the armor.

Instead of answering, Tony sipped his drink. Steve was always bad at reading face expressions and couldn't understand, what he was thinking. Despite the recent excitement, Tony's face was now inscrutable.

"I'm giving you an opportunity," Tony said, finally.

"Why?" asked Steve. "Why me? How can you offer something like that to someone you saw just two times in your life?" He tried to speak in a calm manner, and that made his words sound clipped. "That's your armor. Your world. Protect it. You found a way."

Tony didn’t stop looking at him through his tirade, and his fingers on the glass turned white with tension.

"That's your world as well."

Steve punched the wall with such a force that Tony recoiled at the sight of him. Pain shot up his spine, the blood was whistling in his ears. Steve frowned.

"I didn't ask for it! I didn't want it!" He breathed out, loudly, his chest suddenly feeling tight. "I had a purpose. A war. My place is back there. But because of some scientist and his experiments I betrayed my country and all the trust that was put on me! It's taken me such a long time to get there, and now..." Steve's hand was shaking, and he squeezed his wrist with another hand. "It's all been pointless."

A thought in his head that felt like it didn’t really belong to him remarked that that was what posttraumatic shock probably felt like. All the despair he felt during the last months paired with a body that was positively exhausted resulted in a tantrum unbecoming of a soldier. 

"I better go," Steve said, dully, not raising his gaze.

Tony's face still didn't betray his thoughts. He shrugged, as if shaking off all the stuff that's been said just now, and turned away.

"Jarvis will close after you," he muttered.

***

Steve really didn’t want to think about anything that happened. During the war, he sometimes tried to imagine what it would be like to tell somebody about the Iron Man: his girlfriend, or a friend, or even just a passerby. Steve pictured how it would happen, what words would be said, what he would answer. He wondered, if people would be disgusted, or scared, or just shocked. But while Steve Rogers was a nobody, and Iron Man was a hero in his world, in this one, neither of them mattered.

During his third week working at the shop he found a dusty Beretta under the cash register. It was a small, smooth gun, heavy, but fitting well in his hand. Before that Steve ever only saw modern firearms on pictures on the internet and didn't even imagine he would see one in real life.

It felt weird, Steve only now realized how helpless he'd been, and that should've been strange for a guy who used to be connected to a deadly suit of armor.

"A cop I knew gave me this little thing," Solomon, an old mixed-race man, an owner of the store Steve was working in, explained, as he appeared at the door. "He was working under cover. Got shot."

"I'm sorry to hear that," answered Steve and carefully lowered the gun back into the drawer.

Solomon shrugged.

"Comes with the territory. I didn't touch that thing since then. I'd rather handle a rattlesnake, seems safer. Why would a good guy need a gun, if he's not a cop? I think, if you just sit quiet, you aren't gonna need it."

Steve and the news had other thoughts on that, but arguing with Solomon was useless.

"You can take it, if you want," the man continued. "It's just gathering dust here. There are a couple of boxes with bullets in the storage."

Sometimes Steve found himself stupidly jealous of Solomon. The man was the freest person Steve ever met. He owned an art store, knowing nothing at all about art, painted gauche pictures that he gifted his friends, called himself an anarchist that didn't give a crap about anything, didn't eat meat and donated to an orphanage. He was also chatty, had a dog without a name, liked to read poetry aloud, and he hired Steve without even asking to see his ID.

And now he was giving a person he barely knew a Beretta.

"I've no license," Steve said, unsure.

"And you're going to run around the streets showing it off?" Solomon frowned, as if Steve just said something stupid. "Laws are for those who don't have their own brain. Take it or leave it. I'll go take a walk."

He whistled for his dog and went outside, holding the door for his pet to pass.

Steve took the gun, because, as he tried to explain to himself, he was a responsible person. Who knew what else Solomon would decide to do with it? He could give it to a child, for all Steve knew. 

If he dropped the excuses, though, and was honest with himself, Steve just liked the protection the dusty gun offered him and the way it reminded him of the war. 

***

Working in an art shop helped with his adaptation more so, than walking with Ben ever did – that is, when Ben still had time to walk with him. Having to talk to with the clients and interact with the outside world forced Steve out of his cocoon. Not completely, of course, but the work made him feel useful, and that was more important than anything.

Sometimes Steve still woke up with a distinct feeling that he was back at home, and the war was still going, and everything he's been through in the last couple of months was just a bizarre dream. He was connected to reality only by the thinnest of threads, and Steve had to scratch his palm with his nails so the pain would bring him back to it again.

Tony didn't call anymore, and that was unsettling. Sometimes Steve found himself waiting for it, or for another break-in. He was charging his phone regularly since that last meeting. But time passed, and Tony wasn't there, and Steve accepted it, like he accepted being stuck in a new world and time – that is, painfully and incompletely.

Janet, however, called all the time, to Steve's surprise. Either she liked the fact that he never rejected her, or she just enjoyed making new friends, or there was something else going on that Steve didn't know about. Janet was showing him New York and dragging him to art shows, and if there was something wrong with their friendship, it was Janet's unwillingness to go to a baseball game. Then again, Steve could understand that.

"Have you been to Disneyland?" she asked instead of a greeting. "Don't answer, that's not important. Are you free today? I need to go shopping and Hank's always..." Janet stopped, and Steve vividly imagined her rolling her eyes. "I promise no lingerie store!"

"I'll be free in an hour," answered Steve, after looking at the clock in the right corner of the laptop screen. "Why?" he was pressing the phone to his ear by his shoulder, and trying to type something into a web browser, but the phone call interrupted his thoughts and he couldn’t remember what it was anymore.

"You don't mind?" Janet hummed. "Hank always gets embarrassed, he gets pale, he gets red, he starts reciting some scientific nonsense. It's like a reflex."

Steve nodded and almost dropped the phone.

"But I only need a couple of new dresses," Janet continued. "Then we can go for some ice-cream. Or pizza. Or..."

"Yeah, I'm in," Steve said, softly. "Where are we meeting?"

Janet rattled off the address and hung up. Steve went back to his browsing.

Precisely an hour later Steve put the Beretta covered in wrapping paper into his backpack, closed the storage room and the cash register, fixed his hair in front of a mirror and went outside, not forgetting to turn around the 'open' sign. Solomon laughed at Steve's diligence sometimes, but he couldn't behave any other way, and he got used to friendly jabs at his character during the war. Steve was consistent and scrupulous, especially when he was stressed, and he was stressed all the time.

Janet saw him and happily waved her hand, the gesture so wide she almost knocked a woman passing by.

"Let's eat first," she declared and pushed him towards a diner. "I'm starved. Hank shut himself in the lab since morning, and nothing could drag him out of there. I hope they'll remember to feed him."

She laughed, and Steve smiled at her. Janet loved to talk about Hank, and even despite her careless tone anyone could see she really cared for him.

"I'll send him a message. How's work?" asked Janet, carefully navigating towards a free table. "You know, I've been pretty surprised to learn you work at an arts shop."

"Why?"

"Probably just stereotypes." She didn't even look at the menu – just ordered a salad and a glass of juice from a waiter passing them by. "I thought all soldiers go to work in police or private security."

Steve’s thoughts without his say so went to the gun stacked in his backpack.

"I," he hesitated. "I wanted to be an artist before..." Before the world war started, he almost said, but held himself in time. "Before I decided to enlist."

For some reason, the confession got Janet excited.

"That's so cool," she said. "You can apply to an academy and properly study it. I know a couple of people... bastards, the lot of them," Janet laughed again, carefree and happy. "But they've got connections. Besides, one of them owes me."

"There's no need," Steve shook his head. "I like my job."

Janet was going to argue, but a phone call interrupted her. She yanked the mobile from her purse and frowned.

"Can't do anything without me, huh?.. What? How do you mean?"

For the first time in his life, Steve saw someone's face lose all color in the matter of seconds.

"Where's Hank?" Janet's voice sounded sharp. "What's going on? Of course, just tell me..."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen, baffled.

"Janet?"

Steve frowned and carefully put his hand atop hers to draw her attention.

"Janet, what happened?"

He saw people in such a state, even before the war. There was a girl in the art academy he went to, always cheerful and sweet to everyone. Steve remembered her, even though they were studying in different years. Then one day he found her in a corridor, pale, her eyes empty. No matter how many times Steve called her name, she didn't respond, just swayed back and forth and clutched a letter in her hands. Steve later found out it was a death notification. Janet was looking just like that.

"What happened?" Steve asked again, more insistent this time. He leaned forward, touched her chin softly and raised her head. "Hey, look at me. Janet? Talk to me."

"I," she said slowly, "it was the institute. There... there... Hank..."

"What did they say? Tell me the exact words, this is important."

"Miss van Dyne, you're needed in the institute. Yes. There was an accident, an explosion in the lab, there's a chance the toxin was released." She blinked. If before Janet's voice was distant, now it came alive again, "oh my god. We have to go there, Steve! Now!"

She jumped, without waiting for his answer, and Steve had to grab her elbow to stop her. He took out a crumpled bill and left it on the table.

"Let's go," he said. "Did you drive here? No? Then we'll take a taxi."

In the car, Janet didn't say anything, just squeezed Steve's hand so hard he almost stopped feeling his fingers. She'd been in shock, but until they reached the lab and learned exactly what happened, trying to make her feel better was pointless.

The building had no visible signs of damage. When Jan said 'explosion', Steve pictured ruined cities and air strikes, flaming buildings, smog and debris. Nothing like this was here, just a couple of black cars with toned windows and a few guys in black suits at the entrance – completely identical and inscrutable. Looking closer, Steve noticed they had guns.

"I'm an intern," some guy said impatiently, his agitated voice could be heard from afar. "I work here. Study. Peter Parker, I'll be in your records, come on."

"Unfortunately, sir," said the suit, "we aren't letting anyone into the building."

"I'll get fired," Parker stepped from leg to leg and looked around, nervously adjusting his backpack. "What happened there?"

"That's classified. Who are you?"

Steve belatedly realized the question was addressed to him.

"Janet van Dyne, I was called, they said it was urgent," Janet blurted out, "he's with me."

The suit nodded.

"Come in. They're waiting for you in the hall."

Janet squeezed Steve's fingers even harder and, with confidence surprising for her state, went inside, leaving behind the grim suits and the nervous intern. The corridor looked untouched, as did the elevator, as did narrow passages between the rooms. Janet quickened her step, almost starting to run, and Steve had to focus not to stumble as he followed her.

They came to the lab, and Janet froze, and then let Steve go and rushed forward, immediately getting caught by a guy in a lab coat.

"I'm Janet van Dyne!" she yelled. "Let me in! I need to know where's Hank! Henry Pym! Where is he?"

The guy stepped back and Janet rushed into the room, almost stumbling on a broken piece of a table.

As far as Steve understood it, there was no explosion, it was either a lie, or incorrectly interpreted information. The room was trashed by someone furious and inhumanely strong, by someone who could break an oak table and knock out plastic windows. 

There were ants that got out of their broken aquarium running around all over the floor. Steve looked, distracted, at black dots sneaking over pieces of furniture and raised his gaze.

Janet crossed the hall in just a few steps and froze next to the lab's entrance. Another 'suit' immediately rushed to her, trying to say something, but Janet suddenly stumbled back and would've fallen if Steve didn't catch her.

"Where's Hank?" she yelled again. "There's blood there. Hey, you bastard...!"

"Miss van Dyne," the suit said in confusion. "I need to..."

"Where's Hank?" Janet asked again. She was shaking, she got out of Steve's hands and stopped in the center of the room. Her face was twisted into a grimace that looked both frightened and furious, like she was ready to jump at a first person and tear them apart.

At the corner of his eye, Steve noticed the ruined lab, dark red spots on the walls, as if someone was smeared all over them with unmitigated fury. For the first time since he ended up in this world, Steve felt sick.

"I need to ask you a few questions," the suit insisted. "Miss van Dyne, sit down..."

Janet swore, made a few steps forward, and then her legs gave out under her, and she would've fallen if Steve didn't support her and help her sit on a nearby chair.

"Bring some water," Steve hissed at the suit. The man looked around helplessly and disappeared in the corridor.

Janet started crying.

Steve was always scared of tears – more than he was scared of the attacks in the forties or teenaged gangs in his youth. He tried to move away, but Janet squeezed his arm and he had to sit down next to her chair and hug her.

"Steve," Janet whispered. "Where's Hank? What if..."

"It's okay," Steve said as confidently as he could. "You'll see, Hank just went out, and they'll find him, and you'll be laughing about it in no time."

"Laughing about it," she echoed. "But what if..."

She couldn't finish, but Steve understood anyway, by the way she was trying not to look around and notice dark red spots on the walls.

"No," Steve said, calm. "That's not it. I've seen explosions before, for the person to..." He stopped, understanding how inappropriate would be what he was going to say. "That's not Hank," he finished, awkwardly. Janet nodded, lost in thought.

When the suit finally came back, Janet was almost calm and barely shaking in Steve's hands. He had to move away for the man to give Janet water, and the suit pulled him to the side.

"Sam Wilson," he introduced himself. "We didn't want for it to go this way. Her reaction was unexpected."

"What reaction were you expecting, then?" Steve said, irritated. "You told her something about an explosion, called her here, there are cars all around, and this room..." he sighed. "Is that Hank's blood?"

"We're checking that," Wilson said shortly. "We need Miss van Dyne to answer some questions about Hank Pym's research."

"Listen..."

"What questions?" Janet asked, her voice grim. "You're not here about the accident, are you?" She got up from the chair and looked at Wilson in a way that Steve didn't like at all. "You need Hank's work. You don't give a shit if he's alive or not!"

"Miss..."

"Are you always like that? Surrounded the lab like there's been a gamma-radiation explosion! Then again, I do remember that time..."

"Miss!" Wilson raised his hands. "Come down. We're worried about Doctor Pym as much as you are."

"That I wouldn't believe," Janet breathed out. She tilted her head, like an animal studying its surroundings for danger. "And I refuse to answer your questions, until you bring Hank back, alive and well."

Wilson opened his mouth, clearly going to argue back, but he was interrupted by an arrival of a tall man in a black suit with bright red hair. He waved his hand, and Wilson nodded quickly and moved aside. Janet kept watching him.

"You can call me Dugan," he said. "Did you come with Miss van Dyne?"

He was speaking quietly - probably hoping Janet wouldn't hear him, - but he didn't quite succeed at that.

"I want to apologize for the rudeness of my colleagues," he continued, after Steve nodded. "Of course, all questions can wait, considering Miss van Dyne's state. We're just trying to avoid a repetition of the situation with gamma rays. I think you can go, but..."

Steve was expecting that 'but'.

"I'd like, if at all possible, for Miss van Dyne to stay with you. Well, you know, in such a shocked state a person can do anything... And give me your phone number."

"I won't say anything," Steve insisted, "before you find Henry Pym."

"Of course," Dugan agreed enthusiastically.

"And I need to see lab results for the blood."

"I'll let you know as soon as we have them."

Steve pulled out of his grip and came to Janet. Dugan yelled after them:

"Keep your phone turned on!"

Steve nodded and moved his shoulders, trying to shake away the disgust he was feeling.

Janet was calm now, sitting with her hands squeezed in her lap and looking in front of her. She was pale, and her makeup smeared on her cheeks, her eyes were red, but at least she wasn't crying and screaming anymore.

"Janet," Steve said in a soft voice, touching her shoulder. "Let's go to mine, we've nothing to do here anymore. That man promised to keep me posted."

Janet stubbornly pressed her lips together, but in a couple of moments she stood up, leaning on Steve.

"Bastards," she whispered. "Vultures."

"I'll call Tony," said Steve suddenly, surprising himself. "Let's just get out of here." The idea was unexpected, but it made sense: Tony clearly had connections, and he was Hank and Janet's friend, he at least deserved to know.

Janet nodded, and they slowly went towards the exit, half-hugging each other.

Outside, Steve caught a taxi, helped Janet inside and pulled out his phone. Tony answered after the eighth ring.

"What?" His voice sounded irritated.

"Tony?"

"Oh, Steve," now he sounded amused. "Missed me?"

Annoyed, Steve rubbed his nose and went straight to business: 

"Do you know what happened in Hank's lab?"

"Rise of the ants?" suggested Tony, but being met by silence, asked in a more worried tone, "what happened?"

"That's not a phone call kind of conversation," Steve answered. "In short: the lab is trashed, and nobody can find Hank." Steve looked at Janet and was going to add 'yet' to it and that they'll surely find him soon, but just shook his head. "I'm with Janet."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Wait," Steve pulled away the phone and told the driver the address, "There're too many people in suits here, I don't even understand what's happening. Can you find out something?"

"Are you bringing her home?" Tony asked instead, "I'll be with you soon."

He hung up.

When they were leaving, Steve noticed one of the black cars driving from the gates and following them. Well, that was annoying. Steve didn't like being followed, and his instincts told him only an enemy would do that. Steve was used to trusting his gut, that saved his life and other soldiers multiple times.

"We'll get out a bit earlier," he said to the driver. If Janet was surprised, she didn't comment on it, until they left the taxi and started walking around the little streets.

"We're like in a spy novel," she said. "Other times I wouldn't mind, but today... Steve, what's happening?"

"Just trust me," he answered, simply.

Steve had a thought that Janet would make a good soldier and immediately berated himself for it. Janet allowed him his bout of paranoia and gave in to her emotions only when they were inside the flat.

"Do you need some water?" Steve asked, helping her to the couch.

"I need Hank," Janet answered, quietly. She suddenly grabbed Steve's wrist, "promise me he'll be alright. Steve. Promise me."

"He'll be alright," Steve said, "whatever happened to him, we'll figure it out. As soon as possible," he hesitated for a moment, and then kissed her forehead. "I promise."

Janet lied down and hugged a pillow. When Steve came back with a blanket, she was already sleeping.

Tony came in half an hour later. He didn't break in, unlike last time, just knocked at the door.

"How is she?" was the first thing he asked.

"Sleeping," Steve took him to the kitchen and put the kettle on, just to have something to do. "Did you learn anything?"

"I did," Tony answered. "They tested the blood. It's from a whole lot of lab rats. Somebody's in for some trouble, but at least our Hank didn't get smeared across the wall."

Steve had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Where is he, then?" he asked. "What happened there?"

Tony didn't answer, and Steve turned around. Tony was sitting with his chin in his hand, looking absently at the wall.

"Tony?"

"Did Reed ever tell you anything about Hank's research? Why does he need all the ants and the rats, why's he always in the lab at night and didn't tear off your head for walking around with his girlfriend?"

Steve shook his head and didn't even ask how Tony knew about his meetings with Jan. He'd already figured out that when Tony wanted to learn something, he did, whatever anybody else’s opinion was about it.

Tony put his hand in his hair and tousled it nervously.

"Hank was experimenting with subatomic particles that can enlarge or shrink an object after coming in contact with it. Rats, rabbits, ants. My bots. Of course, the effect is not permanent, but Hank's been working on that." He fell silent for a moment. "The particles had a side-effect. Some animals started behaving erratically, even aggressively."

Steve suddenly understood where he was going with it. He went back to the table, put the coffee pot on it and sat down.

"D'you think..." Steve coughed, his voice was hoarse. "Do you think he tested it on himself?"

"I do," Tony shrugged. "That's a normal thing among scientists."

"And... how small could he become?" Steve inquired cautiously.

"Like an insect," Tony muttered. "Like an ant."

A thought that Hank could've just been crushed in the ruckus crossed both their minds and hung in the air – heavy, almost tangible. Steve didn't want to ask that aloud, and Tony wasn't going to mention it, apparently.

"I'll stay here till Janet wakes up," he finally broke the silence.

It wasn't the first time Steve had to wait for things. He was good at waiting. Unlike Tony. He'd make a dreadful soldier, because, like Steve concluded following his endless movements around the room, he was as impatient as you could possibly get. First, he fiddled with the TV that nobody turned on since he fixed it. Then he went to a staircase to yell at somebody over the phone. Then he just paced around the room, like an animal locked in a cage.

"Tony," Steve called in a tired voice, fighting an oncoming headache. "Sit down, please."

Tony gave him a puzzled look, perched himself on the edge of a seat and started rocking on its legs. From the resulting squeaky noise, Steve’s headache just got worse.

"Have you decided about the armor?" Tony asked.

"I've already told you no," said Steve.

"But you don't understand..."

"No means no," Steve interrupted. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't want to talk about the forties either, I'm guessing." Steve very pointedly shook his head, and Tony snorted. "Alright. What then?"

Steve didn't want to talk about anything, but the silence was clearly driving Tony crazy. It was driving him crazy, too. Being able to concentrate on waiting was useful during the war, but now it was just annoying and almost physically painful.

"What do you do?"

"You read about me on the internet," Tony touched the already cold coffee pot with his fingertips and sighed heavily. "I own a company, I waste my life away, I gather junk. That kind of thing."

"Junk," Steve echoed. He felt himself getting irritated again. What junk? The kind of junk that was red and gold and that the best scientists during the war would sell their souls for? "Weapons?" he asked in a low voice.

"Not anymore," said Tony, looking Steve in the eyes. "I'm an expert in robotics. I study electronics. Trying to make the perpetuum mobile."

Steve frowned.

"Working on a philosopher's stone," Tony finished in a completely serious tone.

It was the third time they met, and still Steve didn't know how to react to Tony's words. He joked with a completely serious face and hid the important things under yet more jokes. Tony, while he'd shown himself as completely open person with no secrets, seemed encased in a kind of armor that made it impossible to see anything real in him. Steve caught himself thinking, though, that there was nothing impossible in this world.

"Do you need help with it?" he asked.

Tony was going to answer, but loud music interrupted them. Steve looked at his phone, but it was silent.

"That's not mine," Tony said at the same time.

They looked at each other, and then jumped from their chairs. The ringing stopped when they were at the door: Janet, ruffled and looking scared, was pressing the phone to her ear.

"Hank," she said. "Is it you? Please, tell me you're alright. Oh my god," Janet ran her hand through her hair and laughed quietly. "You're an idiot. You're the most genius idiot I know!"

Janet was saying something else, quickly and almost incomprehensibly, but Steve stopped listening.

It was over. Hank's particles worked, and that meant everything was going to be alright. Somehow, that made Steve as disappointed as it made him relieved, and he closed his eyes. It was low and wrong to find a reason for existence in somebody else's pain, and that seemed to be exactly what he did. Steve thought in disgust that he, apparently, still wanted to feel like a hero.

"Hey," Tony called for him quietly. "Are you alright?"

Steve opened his eyes and discovered that he was leaning on a doorframe and pressing his hand to the reactor. Instead of answering, he just shook his head back and forth in an unsure gesture.

"Are you coming with us?" asked Tony, softly.

Janet was making noise, doing god knows what in the background. She appeared, with her face clean and beaming, relieved like a person who just had all her problems solved. Janet gave him an unsure smile, her lips quivering slightly.

"I am," answered Steve. Tony stared at him for a moment, and then grabbed his coat from a chair and headed out.

***

The people in black suits left. The only reminder of what just happened was an ambulance parked next to the building and empty corridors. 

And, of course, Hank sitting amidst the chaos, with a medic trying to measure his blood pressure.

"My man," started Tony, "what did I tell you about performing tests on yourself?"

"Oh, Stark," Hank answered, irritated, trying to weasel out of medic's hands, "shut your..."

He didn't get to finish, as Janet jumped forward and awkwardly froze in front of him. She clutched lapels of the coat thrown around Hank's shoulders, shook him slightly and squeezed his neck so hard Steve almost expected to hear his spine breaking. 

"You're a bastard," she hissed. "Never, do you hear me? Never do anything like that again."

"Jan..."

"We're going for a vacation tomorrow. Away from this city," Janet breathed out loudly. "To my father's cottage."

Hank's face suddenly took on a tortured expression. 

"But..."

"Shut up," Janet interrupted. "No more talk about your insects, or your lab, or your experiments, or any of that nonsense. Do you hear me?"

Tony snorted and kicked a piece of glass from an aquarium – the ants that were previously crawling over it scattered away. Steve, who tried to tactfully look away and ended up staring at the blood smears on the walls, raised his eyebrows.

"Just one last time," Hank whined, pleading. He looked over Janet's shoulder. "Tony, do you know that if you splash the particles on your clothes, it shrinks with your body?"

"Hank!"

"We'll regret that he didn't get crushed in the chaos," said Tony, his words barely audible. Steve flinched. He never understood making jokes about that and probably never will. Tony noticed, raised his hand, as if going to tap him on the shoulder, but froze in an uncomfortable pose, "that's weird," he said, but didn't explain what exactly he thought was weird and just put his hands back in his pockets. "Pym! How did that marvelous idea occur to you?"

Janet turned around, and the amazon warriors would probably envy the rage in her eyes: she looked at Tony as if she was going to tear him apart. Steve smirked.

"I got rejected again, well, you know," said Hank joylessly, "who knew the commission would react like that to talking about weaponry!" He moved his shoulders, and succumbed to Janet’s hugs.

"And you wanted to show them what you're worth?" asked Steve. The sentiment was familiar to him, he also got denied and rejected time and time again. Nobody was interested in problematic weak guys. Except for crazy scientists, it seemed.

"No. Yes. I don't know," Hank sighed. "I don't know what came over me, I just saw the ants, and remembered the doc telling me to do something unexpected, and I just thought..."

"The doc?" Tony said. "You're going to a therapist?" Hank nodded, and Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh, Henry, you need to change your surroundings, get outside your comfort zone, find the source of your issues and understand the depths of your subconscious," mocked Tony. "I hate therapists."

"Something unexpected," remarked Janet quietly, running her hand through Hank's hair. "He meant a party, or karaoke, I don’t know, jumping with a parachute. Something you'd never do, sweetie."

Perhaps, Steve thought, he himself needed to follow the doc's advice, whatever derision Tony chose to speak about it with. Get drunk, accept Solomon's invitation to a hippie party (Steve still didn't know anything about hippies. He most certainly read something about them on the internet, once, but quickly forgot about), just let himself unwind. Then again, he’d hardly seriously consider doing any of that.

"The effect's amazing, Stark," Hank started, but Janet put her hand over his mouth.

"No," she said. "Rest, nature and relaxation. No science talk. That means you, too, Tony."

Tony nodded with feigned remorse, but, apparently, took her words seriously, for a change.

"There were people here, did they talk to you?" asked Tony.

"They were interested in my research," said Hank, visibly pleased. "They left me a number. It's a private organization."

"Do you remember crashing your lab?" 

"I," Hank hesitated. "No. I remember being angry and I remember pouring the solution over me, but then I woke up in the chaos already."

"Check that nothing's missing."

"Are you kidding?" Pym raised his eyebrows. "How would I even..."

Janet slapped him on the mouth.

"Stark," she growled, "get the hell out of here."

Tony raised his hands in peace offering.

"Easy, tiger, I'm just trying to help."

Janet straightened up. Steve again wondered how such a small and fragile woman could become so commanding, almost to the point of seeming cruel. She pointed at Tony.

"Don't make me kick you out," she said.

Tony stepped back, feigning horror.

"Let's go, Steve," he said, laughing. "Hank, I'll call!"

"Don't even think about it," Janet growled again, and Tony slipped outside, smirking.

***

They were walking in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, despite Steve's expectations.

The sun was setting down in the west, coloring the institute's windows in red. There were no cars on the parking lot, except for Tony's, and that emptiness seemed to have robbed the place of all sounds. Children's laughter and dogs barking somewhere afar seemed distant, as if separated by a glass.

Steve expected Tony to start talking about the armor again, but he was silent, squinting at the sun.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" asked Tony out of the blue. "A museum, opera, ballet? What did you like before the war?"

"I want to go home," said Steve. It was weird, but he was almost disappointed Tony left his attempts to change his mind. Steve just only now seriously considered a possibility of Iron Man in this new world – as a reality, and not just a stupid theory. It only now occurred to him that he didn't have to tear his connection with the past completely.

"I get it," Tony laughed with a hoarse voice. "Stark, get the hell out of here."

He didn't look hurt, but Steve still felt uncomfortable.

"I didn't say that."

"You're lacking van Dyne's straightforwardness," remarked Tony.

"I'm just different."

"Don't underestimate yourself."

Tony didn’t even reach his car when Steve called after him: 

"There's an exhibition closing in three days that I wanted to see. I've a day off in two."

Tony smirked and put on his glasses.

"Got it," he said before getting in the car, "I'll call tomorrow."

Tony's car disappeared around the corner, and Steve lowered his shoulders and sighed. This short bout of activity tore him from a half-asleep state he's been existing in and made him want to do things again. Coming home, Steve kept having that thought that refused to leave him alone – the second world war in this world happened in the same way except for one little detail: there was no Iron Man. What happened to him? Why was the project never started? What happened to Steve Rogers of this world?


	3. You can't break someone who’s already broken

Alabama felt wet and heavy, and its views were monotone yellow with rare addition of grey where a highway came closer to the railroad. Bold brown mountains rose on the horizon, covered by a heated mist, as if somebody painted them with acrylic paint over the blue sky. Steve's only neighbor was a small old woman who spent half of the road sleeping, and another half – telling him about the war. Steve squirmed every time it occurred to him they were probably born the same year.

After going through the old newspapers, Steve didn’t find any information about any war projects. At least, that told him there was no information available to civilians. What he did find, were traces of something so classified even Tony Stark couldn't get to it. Out of all the flood of useless information Steve managed to extract just one name, and so he was going to Tuscaloosa, a small town in the west of the state, to meet Doctor Bruce Banner.

He left a note at the flat, took all the money he earned, shoved the Beretta wrapped up in a hoodey deep into his backpack and left. The act was impulsive and thought through at the same time. Impulsive – because nobody would expect something like this from him, and thought through, because that was the way Steve did everything. He was taught that any endeavor should start with a plan, and so, he had a plan.

The train arrived late in the evening. The station was almost deserted; Steve found only a half-asleep guy who pointed him in the direction of the closest hotel. The ringing silence seemed almost deafening, and Steve spent a couple of moments in front the hotel’s doors and just listened before entering. In the room, he checked his things and he checked the entrances, as he always did, and only then he allowed himself to relax.

His phone rang.

"That was stupid," said Tony instead of a greeting.

"Did you break in again?"

Tony snorted.

"I had a key made last year. Why were you in such a hurry?"

"You're upset I didn't call you?" Steve adjusted the phone and made himself comfortable on the bed. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then closed his eyes and continued, "Tony, I want to talk to him and learn everything I can. This is important."

"Yeah," Tony answered, not missing a beat. "All that bullshit about self-discovery. I remember."

"How's your presentation?"

"Oh!"

Since the day Steve asked for help in his research, he and Tony were talking almost daily. Steve couldn’t understand, what was driving the man, though. Maybe, he found it amusing to speak with an alien, maybe it was something else, but he responded eagerly to any of Steve's ideas and supported him, even when those ideas involved breaking the law. After all, it was hard to call breaking into a state archive anything else. Sometimes Steve thought that that's what friendship looks like, but he always suppressed that thought. He never had friends. He was terrified of being wrong about it.

"Steve, are you asleep, or something?"

He opened his eyes abruptly and sat up.

"I... yeah, the road was long." Steve lied down again. "I didn't notice."

"Happens," Tony said and then hummed. "What are you wearing?"

"Sorry?"

"Don't mind it, just a joke you wouldn’t understand. Call me after you talk to Banner."

"Of course."

"And, Steve," Tony made a pause. "Be careful, alright? Grimm will dismember me if something happens, and then Janet will destroy the pieces that’ll be left of me. And then Pym will join the party and..."

"Alright, alright," Steve chuckled. "Everything will be fine."

There was a mirror on the wall in an old scratched wooden frame. Steve was undressing, getting ready to go to bed and didn't think about anything at all, when his gaze fell on the smooth surface of it. Dim room lights almost overshadowed the glow of the reactor, but the shadows still put on display his scars and bones sticking out. Steve learned a while ago that he didn't look too small or skinny for the twenty first century, not enough to make him stand out, at least. Janet even remarked once that he looked like a programming student and all he was missing was a pair of glasses. But Steve was used to being ashamed of his body. He was used to thinking himself not strong and tough enough. It didn't have anything to do with the reactor – the reactor was just something he needed for his work, but now even that became something alien, ugly and completely useless.

Steve turned away, quickly put on is t-shirt and crawled under a thin, rough blanket, trying to shake away the ugly thoughts.

***

The tired man on the picture had dark hair and warm, kind brown eyes. Steve could only guess what could force him to hide away in half-deserted plains of Alabama.

The alarm woke Steve up at seven. He had breakfast in a diner adjusted to the hotel. A bored waitress there told Steve how to reach the address he had written down.

"That's outside the city," she explained. "There's an old mining town there, it's half-dead, though. The mine went bankrupt and all the people moved, just old folk and gold-diggers there now. You want another toast?"

"No, thanks. Another cup of coffee, please." The waitress – Sharon, according to her badge – nodded. "How do I get there?"

"There's a bus, and then you'll have to walk five miles." Sharon squinted. "Are you one of those? You're gonna pull gold?"

Steve hesitated.

"Yeah, gold," he muttered. "Something like that."

"Cool. Found something already?"

"Not yet," answered Steve.

"Well, good luck, then." Sharon straightened up. "A cup of coffee, handsome? With cream?"

Serving in the army changed Steve completely. If before he would've thought that he'd never walk five miles, now he just knew he had to pace himself, conserve his water and have some cover from the sun. He was trained the same way other soldiers were, even harder – how likely it was that the enemy could capture the armor depended on his ability to survive. His ability and his determination, really: Steve was taught how to shoot the reactor on the first few days of training.

Of course, he was pretty tired when he finally got to the town. His backpack was pulling his shoulders, his hoodey clung to his back, but Steve didn't dare take it off. He was leaning on a tree when somebody called him:

"Hey, boy,” an old, sturdy woman stopped next to him, “is everything alright? You're not looking too well."

"Ma'am," Steve answered. He wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to react. "I'm alright, ma'am."

The old woman squinted in doubt. Her eyebrows, unlike her hair, were pitch black.

"I could handle this type of alright with one of my hands tied behind my back," she said. "You should see a doctor. Damn you tourists," she grunted, "the young folk these days are all weak. Come on, boy, I'll take you to our doc."

Steve hesitated, stepping from foot to foot, then put his water flask in the pocket and followed – it didn't seem like he had any other choice, really. He had to ask her about Banner, of course, but he didn't quite want to do it out in the open.

They stopped next to a shabby unremarkable house that looked like it got turned inside out and dragged a few feet in the air. It was likely the village was once a sizeable town, but the decay or lack of money stripped away its former grandeur. It was a really weird place for a scientist, but a great one if you wanted to disappear without a trace.

"Jones," called the old woman, "Jones, I brought you a patient! Treat the guy, I'm going home."

She turned around, not waiting for an answer, and briskly went towards another, slightly less shabby house. Steve turned back around and saw the man from the picture on the threshold, cleaning his hands with a rug.

"Sorry," the man gave him an awkward smile, "she does things like that sometimes."

"You're a doctor?" Steve asked, surprised. Bruce Banner shook his head.

"I am, but not of medicine," Banner's face suddenly changed, "did you come to ask if I have a license to treat people?"

"No, I..."

"Come in," Banner hang his rug on a nail driven into the doorframe and pushed the door. Steve followed him inside in silence.

Calling the room minimalistic would be giving it a compliment: it was almost empty. There was a sturdy table in the center of the room, a small electric stove and a refrigerator next to the window. It was pretty clean, though, even the window glass was completely transparent. The way to another room was blocked by a colorful screen.

"Sit down," Banner pointed at a chair. "I'd offer you a drink, but I only have bad tea."

Steve shook his head. Banner sat opposite him and carefully put his elbows on the table.

"Listen," he said, softly. "It's true that I don't have a license. I'm not a doctor, but this place doesn't have any. And there's no landline, so people can't..."

"I'm not here because of that," Steve interrupted him, softly.

Banner fell silent. Steve took off his backpack, rummaged inside and took out the picture.

"Are you Doctor Bruce Banner?" he asked, putting the picture on the table and pushing it towards the man.

Not a muscle moved on Banner's face. For a moment, Steve believed that he was mistaken, or given the wrong directions and address, or maybe he took the wrong bus, but...

"My name's Bruce Jones."

No. This was the man he was looking for.

"I'm not here to harm you in any way," Steve said, quietly. "I came to ask for your help."

Banner took off his glasses and started methodically cleaning the lenses with a piece of his shirt, looking away.

"I've no ties to the government," Steve tried again, "my friend hacked the database to learn your address. I came from New York."

"Why?"

Banner's eyes looked exactly like the picture: calm and friendly, with worry lines around them. He probably frowned a lot.

This was a tricky question. Steve couldn't lie – Banner seemed distrustful, and distrustful people saw through lies much more easily. But all the words Steve was turning around in his head on the way from Tuscaloosa to the small mining town all of a sudden seemed too pretentious, too convoluted, even the ones that were completely true.

"You must have information," Steve started, carefully thinking about his every word, "about a project that was started during the Second World War. I looked through the archives, but there's nothing, the only name mentioned was yours."

"Information?" Banner echoed. 

He was breathing in a peculiar way; Steve saw that technique before, being used to calm people down.

"I want nothing from you but information," Steve confirmed. "And I won't disturb you anymore after I get it."

Banner jumped from his place in a sudden twitching move and went to the cloth (Steve couldn't quite call it a curtain) that closed the window.

"You already disturbed me," he said in a rough voice. "Just by coming here."

"Listen, Doctor Banner..."

"No, you listen," he turned around. "Okay. Did anybody follow you? Any cars? Do you have a phone?"

Steve nodded and took out his phone under Banner's piercing gaze. The man tore away the cover, took out a small chip, threw it on the floor and crushed it with his heel.

"Alright," Banner said again. "Laptop? Any other tech? Radio beacon?"

"What are you..." Steve shook his head. "I don't have anything else. I'm not threatening you!"

"Even if you tell the truth, even if your intentions are pure, your curiosity..." Banner sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "What do you need? Who even are you?"

"During the Second World War, the government was going to start a project named Rebirth. A serum, enhancing people's strength."

"Did you come for that serum?" Banner suddenly burst into hoarse, barking laughter, looking at him like a cornered animal. "Do you want to enhance your strength? I'm afraid that's impossible. Go home and get a gym membership."

Steve rose from his chair, took an empty glass from the table and, finding nothing better, poured water from his flask. Banner took the glass with suspicion, looked it over carefully, moving as if he was going to smell it, before drinking. Steve grimaced.

"I don't care about the serum," he said. "A man took part in that project, named Steve Rogers," Banner was going to interrupt him, but Steve raised his hand, "I'm Steve Rogers."

Banner froze, almost looking like he stopped breathing, and then put away the glass and sighed.

"That's impossible," he said, relieved. "I mean," he continued, noticing Steve's confused stare, "you can be Rogers, but not the Rogers. I don't know, how you even found out that, but..."

"I need to know," interrupted Steve, "what happened to him."

"I've no reason to trust you," Banner remarked, quite reasonably. He was still tense. It seemed as though he was trying to relax, and failing miserably. Steve saw perfectly well his shoulders brought together and the nervous tick showing through the carefully controlled expression.

"I need to leave," Banner announced, out of nowhere. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," said Steve. "I'm not leaving until I have my answers."

Banner's suddenly looked exhausted.

"I'm not asking just out of curiosity," said Steve, softly. "I can explain, but you'll probably think I'm crazy."

"I doubt that," Banner laughed. "I haven't heard a story that I would find weird for a long time. But I don't have time, I..."

"I'll come with you."

Banner frowned, either in confusion, or irritation.

"Wherever you're going," said Steve.

***

Watching Banner pack Steve realized it wasn't the first or even the second the man had to leave his home behind taking only the most important things. He wasn't wasting time, wasn't hesitating and knew exactly how to cover his tracks.

"Changed your mind yet?" asked Banner.

Steve just took his backpack and stood next to him.

"I could knock you out right now and leave you here," said Banner in a grim voice when they were at the door. "But then nobody would find you, and another death will be on my conscience." He kept moving without a glance behind.

Steve's ears picked up that 'another'. Banner didn't look like a person who could kill someone. Nevertheless, there was something weird, something concerning in all his movements and how he held himself, as if he was hanging off the edge of a cliff.

"Where are we going?" asked Steve.

"I don't know where you're going," said Banner, "I'm going to my car, and then – somewhere far from here."

The car was parked next to a hill behind the village. It was a small pickup truck; Tony would probably name the model just from a glance. Somebody threw some branches and leaves on it, but the camouflage looked desperately insufficient, considering the car was purple. Steve even wondered why nobody stole it.

"Nobody comes here," Banner explained. "People avoid devastated cities; it ruins their perfect picture of the world. Also," he added, brushing away the leaves, "there're no roads here. You can only find it if you know where to look."

Steve pulled the door, but Banner quickly crossed the distance between them and slammed it. He didn't explain, why, but Steve didn't really need him to.

"Do you know Reed Richards?" he asked, taking the backpack from his shoulder. "He's a scientist, maybe you've heard of him."

Banner nodded and staggered back, as Steve started taking off his hoodey. He was hit by an absurdity of the situation: once more, he was trying to prove something by showing off his reactor. This whole situation was a really unfunny joke.

"He built this device," Steve explained, "that transferred me here from the Second World War. I'm the Steve Rogers," he pointed at his chest, "but from another world. Now do you understand why I need to know, what happened to him?"

Banner looked at the reactor in silence for a couple of minutes, not asking any questions, and then as silently opened the door of the car.

"Get in," he said. "You'll tell me everything on the way. And call me Bruce."

He started the pickup, raising a cloud of yellow dust, and crossed a field with the car rumbling loudly. They were driving for ten minutes, before a narrow overgrown track appeared in front of the car, and Banner slowed down a bit. The rumbling, however, didn’t get any quieter. Steve thought about Tony again, how he would get a seizure if he'd ever end up in this car. Tony couldn't tolerate people not looking after their tech properly.

"That thing in your chest," muttered Bruce. Steve could hardly hear him in all that noise. "What is it? It doesn't look like it could be the result of the serum."

"There was no serum," answered Steve. "The project got shut down."

Bruce chuckled nervously.

"There's a guy next to me who insists he came from the past."

"From another world," added Steve.

"From another world," Bruce echoed. "How come nobody talks about you in the news?"

"Reed didn't want to make it public." Steve hesitated, "he probably thought he could send me back. It was... a mistake? An accident."

There were drops of sweat on Bruce's temples, and his hair was plastered across his forehead, but his face was calm.

"I can't wrap my head around it," he admitted. "I want to think you're just crazy, but something's not letting me. Crazy people don't usually have influential friends that can get them classified information." Bruce took his hand away from the wheel and pushed his hair back. "What would I know, though? I don't know a lot of crazy people."

"I warned you," said Steve.

The track turned, but Bruce kept driving forward, right over the grass. Steve pressed his backpack to his chest. There were no safe belts in the pickup, and Steve kept jumping up on every bump in the road. The gun, even though it was wrapped in his clothes, kept painfully hitting his knees.

"Why are you leaving?" asked Steve.

"They already know my address," Bruce explained. "I don't know why they didn't come earlier, but the sooner I leave the better."

So, he was a criminal, after all. But what would get you in such a weird relationship with the government? Traitors met their fate fast. Bruce also didn't look like a murderer. Did he refuse to take part in some operation and was under scrutiny now? Steve didn't have any illusions about the government for a long time, or maybe, he never really did.

"Do you have a specific location in mind?" he asked. "Somewhere we can wait it out?"

Bruce gave him a crooked grin and started shaking; maybe it was the uneven road, or the laughter he was trying to hold. His jumps from pretended calm to nervous laughter resembled hysteria. What he needed was some rest, something to drink and sleep, and certainly not driving the car.

"Open empty space," he said dully. "I don't want anyone to get hurt."

Steve gave him a puzzled look.

"If things didn't change drastically in the last seventy years, I doubt the government will endanger civilians."

"You don't know, then." Steve noticed that Bruce's knuckles turned white from how hard he was squeezing the wheel. "Or you’re dumb enough to jump into a beast's cage." He paused. "Get comfortable, Steve, we're going to drive for a while."

***

The army taught Steve to sleep in any circumstances: he could nod off in the armor, in the mud, in a trench, sitting, standing, any way just to get some shut-eye. Falling asleep in a softly rocking car was no big deal. He was dreaming of his mother: she was coughing and constantly sending him out of the room – to get some water, to get the doctor, to call the priest. Steve couldn't take a look at her face. His mother was dying, her tuberculosis was getting worse, and all Steve could recall were the sound of her voice and the coughing.

Steve opened his eyes as soon as the car stopped. The day was coming to an end. It was enough of the little light that was there to see that they were on a hill with a few rocks around.

"We're not in Alabama anymore, if you're curious," said Bruce. He leaned back tiredly and closed his face with his hands. "Mississippi, but I've no idea, what district. There's some food in the bag if you're hungry."

"Tired?" Steve took out a small pack that had some sandwiches in it, divided them and gave half to Bruce. The man nodded his thanks.

They ate in silence. The car was quickly cooling down with its engine turned off, and Steve shuddered.

"Listen," said Bruce, "we can drive some more, go to the road, and I'll drop you at a next town."

"I..."

"You'll follow me till you learn all you need," Bruce finished for him. "Yeah, I got that. But you'll freeze, and we can't afford to heat the car all night."

Steve raised his eyebrows, unconsciously copying Tony's expression when he heard somebody telling him bullshit.

"We can set up a fire," he offered. "It's not that hard. And no," Steve shook his head, predicting his objections, "I've been at war, Bruce, nobody'll see us."

Bruce hummed, and Steve belatedly realized the suggestion was just an excuse for Bruce to get rid of his unwanted companion. After all, how could it not occur to a man living like him to set up a fire?

"Let's find a log," Bruce sighed, getting out of the car. Steve yanked the keys out of ignition and followed him.

This place hadn't seen rain for a while; the dry land was creaking under their boots. It already got dark. The sky seemed heavy and black, like a lid with holes in place of stars. Feeling the sky so low made it harder to breathe. Steve hurriedly lowered his eyes and focused on the fire.

While the log was starting to smolder, Bruce took the cover off the pickup. 

"I've only one sleeping bag," he said, somewhat guiltily. "But there are some blankets and warm clothes."

The pickup was filled with metallic cookware, carefully folded blankets, tools and bags. Bruce took a lighter out, checked it and turned it off again. They were once again in complete darkness of a moonless night.

"I never unpack most of the stuff," Bruce explained, spreading a blanket on the ground so they would have something to sit on. "I move every two or three weeks, although I've spent about a month in the last place." He chuckled quietly. "Thought I finally found a place where nobody would care to look for me."

"Where do you get the money?" Steve asked.

"I take any work," Bruce answered. He unzipped the sleeping bag, handed it to Steve and sat down near him, leaning on the wheel of the car. "Just to keep myself busy. I've delivered a baby of this guy's wife, and he gave me the pickup." He shuddered, "that was gross. I'd rather not do it again. But I've got some money, took it from my bank account before it got frozen."

They fell silent. Steve had a dozens of questions, but he waited patiently for Bruce to start talking. The man was in no hurry, though. For a moment Steve even thought that he fell asleep.

"Well," Bruce finally broke the silence. "What happened with the Super soldier project in your world, Steve Rogers?"

"Doctor Erskine was assassinated," Steve answered. "The serum was never created."

"Lucky you."

Banner didn't ask any more questions. He either didn't really care about any of it, or was painfully polite. Or maybe, he didn't want to end up in a situation where frankness of one person called for the same frankness in another.

"Why?" asked Steve.

"Because the serum drove Steve Rogers crazy," all of a sudden, Bruce seemed eager to share the story, "according to the data we have, 'our' Steve was even weaker than you before the experiment. They chose him because they thought he’d fit the role, he was honest, loyal, wanted to serve his country, and he donated his body to science. He turned into an uncontrollable monster and was shot like an animal, after he killed quiet a lot of people."

Steve's throat went dry. He couldn't breathe, but Bruce was still talking in a calm, emotionless tone.

"That's it. That's what you came here for, what you'd better not learned. The project was closed and classified. Steve Rogers never existed, the war was won by normal people. And history's tolerant to mistakes."

For a moment, listening to those dry, distant words, Steve almost believed Bruce was right. He shouldn't have come, shouldn't have looked for this truth. Steve expected to hear anything – that Steve Rogers never existed, that the project was closed, that Erskin was killed and nobody came up with an idea for the armor, anything. The understanding that he wasn't the Steve Rogers who went mad and killed all those people didn't really help. What'd happen to him if Erskin wasn't killed? Would he also become a monster?

"Sorry," said Bruce. His voice shook. "You probably didn't want to hear this."

Steve expected to feel empty, but he felt full of energy instead. The shocking truth didn't explain anything, and brought more questions, than answers.

"Why did that happen?" asked Steve. "Do you have any data from the project? Photos?"

"I think, the formula was wrong, not the person, if it's any consolation," Bruce said, slowly. "The man is complete the way he created, and scientists should learn to suffocate their god complex before it grows. If I understood this before..."

Steve felt a pang of guilt, his curiosity was clearly dragging to the surface some things that Bruce didn't want to remember.

"When did Richards drag you here?"

Steve blinked.

"Three months ago," he said, uncertain. "Or about."

"You've adapted well," Bruce noticed. "And found some interesting people. It was clearly not Grimm that hacked the archives for you."

"I'm lucky that way," Steve shrugged. "Do you know him, then?"

"It's hard to ignore a genius," said Bruce. "Never mind that, though. You've probably heard of a destroyed city in the south of Nevada."

"Sandy Valley?" Steve asked. "The news said there was an earthquake."

The news talked more about the airport next to it, and not the actual city. Steve remembered, because it happened a couple of days after he ended up here, and he was clinging to all information he got his hands on.

"Earthquake," Bruce repeated. "You could say that. It was a failed attempt at recreating the serum. Of course, the government didn't want to publicize their failures."

"Is that why they're looking for you?" Bruce flinched, and Steve continued his thought, "you refused to continue the research?"

It sounded plausible. All of Bruce's behavior hinted at him feeling guilty of something. Maybe, the people getting hurt broke him, or maybe he decided the research was pointless. It sounded quite plausible, but Bruce only laughed at his suggestion.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I don't even know what made them angrier, that I destroyed the city, or that I destroyed the data."

How and, more importantly, why would one person destroy a whole city?

"What did you do?" asked Steve.

"Got angry," Bruce gave a simple answer. He moved a bit closer to the burning log. The ground was cooling down, and it was getting drastically colder. "We should sleep. I want to leave at dawn. We'll have to make a stop to buy gas and food, and then I'll drop you off at the first city with a train station."

Steve wanted to argue, but Bruce seemed too tired for that. Then again, Steve would still have his chance to do that.

"I'll take the first watch. Sleep," said Steve.

The sleeping bag's cloth rustled under his fingers, as he pulled it tighter around himself.

"You're even more paranoid than I am," muttered Bruce.

"That's not why," said Steve. "I've no license, you're the only one of us who can drive."

Bruce moved again, trying to settle down more comfortably.

"If we get caught," he said, his voice almost inaudible, "the lack of driving license will be the least of your problems."

Steve didn't answer, and Bruce raised his voice again:

"I'll take over in a couple of hours. Wake me up."

Steve didn't wake him up. For some time, he was remembering the news coverage of ruined Sandy Valley and the pictures taken at the place, then gave up on it and just looked at the bright red coals of the fire and tried to listen to Bruce's breathing. His thoughts were all over the place. He remembered all of a sudden that he didn't call Tony, as he promised, and made a note to himself to find a phone at the nearest gas station. 

A bird called somewhere in the distance, and Steve opened his eyes abruptly, clutching the sleeping bag in his fists. He dreamt of holding a rifle. 

The sky was turning a greenish blue in the east, and he couldn't see the stars anymore. He shamefully fell asleep, but woke up right at dawn, as was his habit, or even a bit earlier – the sun wasn't rising yet.

Bruce was sleeping, curled into a ball under his blanket, only the strains of dark hair poking out of it and a tall pale forehead. In his sleep, Bruce seemed even more vulnerable. Steve didn't want to wake him, but his body, stiff after his sleep, demanded moving. As soon as he did that, though, Bruce opened his eyes.

"You're still here," he muttered, his voice dull from sleep.

"And nobody found us yet," added Steve. "You wanted to leave at dawn?"

They gathered their things quickly and quietly, not forgetting to hide traces of their presence. Steve noticed Bruce looking at him from time to time, but as soon as he turned towards him, the man turned away. It was somewhat unnerving, but Steve quickly learned to ignore it.

The road was uneven and empty, almost deserted: in a few hours of driving they haven't met a single car. Bruce didn't have a map.

"It doesn't matter anyway," he muttered in his excuse. "I don't know how to read them."

"I do," said Steve. "But whatever."

From time to time, they exchanged a few words on neutral topics, discussed what was happening in the world. Steve turned out to be impressively knowledgeable compared to Bruce and for the first time in a while had a chance to tell something instead of just listening. Bruce was a strange conversationalist, he wasn't distracted like Reed, or patronizing like Ben, or charmingly sarcastic like Tony. When he wasn't reminded of where he was and what he was doing, Bruce answered all questions softly, almost kindly. But then, there were some moments when he winced, losing his smile, and tensed under some internal pressure.

He was tormented by something, so desperately that he didn't even try to hide it.

A gas station appeared on the side of the road, and Bruce stopped the car.

"I..." he started, but Steve interrupted him:

"I'll go pay for gas," he nodded and yanked the keys out of ignition. If Bruce didn't like his behavior, he didn't let it show. "Do you need anything?"

"Water," Bruce answered, distracted. "There's a canister in the back."

He didn't ask about the money, and Steve was almost grateful. Buying some food and paying for the gas was the least he could do for Bruce.

The signpost had a big list of metal fastened to it with a lopsided script: 'The next gas station is in 200 miles.' Steve hummed, grabbed the canister more securely and quickly went to the cashier.

The station had a small supermarket with a bored young guy managing the counter. He visibly cheered up, noticing Steve.

"Travelling?" he asked. "You're a long way away from civilization."

"Yeah," Steve gave a monosyllabic answer. He didn't want to talk. "Do you sell maps?"

The guy nodded at a counter and peered at him with curiosity. The newspapers on the counter were old, and all the magazines were erotic, probably intended for truck drivers. Steve looked away, took an atlas and went back.

He chose the food quickly but with careful consideration. While the cashier was putting his purchases in a bag, Steve asked:

"Do you have a phone here?"

"There's a taxophone next to the gas station," the guy answered. Steve thanked him, paid and left.

Tony's number wasn't in the phone book, but the one for Stark Industries was. Steve dialed it, almost without hope, and flinched, when a pleasant female voice answered him:

"Stark Industries, how can I help you?"

"I need to talk to Tony Stark," said Steve.

The woman went silent for a moment, and then asked:

"On behalf of what company are you calling?"

"No, I'm... I'm with no company. I'm his friend."

"Leave your name," Steve could hear her typing something, "Mister Stark will contact you when he's available."

"Doesn't matter," Steve sighed. "Thanks."

Steve bought a full canister of gas and went back to Bruce, who was mindlessly turning the control wheel of the radio. There was only rattling sound coming from it – either this place had no reception, or the radio was broken.

They ate in silence, and then Bruce brought the pickup on a highway and pushed the gas hard making the pickup rattle thrice as much. Steve spread the map on his knees and was studying it carefully.

"Mississippi," he said after some time. "If we turn here, we'll reach Columbus."

"That city's too big," answered Bruce, shaking his head. "Too many people, too many cars and airports around."

"Something small?" Steve ran his finger on the line of the road on the map in thought. "I'm not suggesting Philadelphia."

"What's straight ahead?"

"A reserve," Steve hummed. "That's empty enough for you?"

"Quite," Bruce answered, his voice grim.

While they were driving, Steve started wondering again, what could cause a person to isolate and hide themselves like that? It wasn't just fear of authority, Bruce wasn’t really afraid of people catching him, but he was of hurting them. What could possibly make him feel this way?

The road quickly stopped being so deserted: there were trees going along it, making it look like a living tunnel. Sometimes they passed by huge trucks and single cars, a couple of times Steve even noticed people riding bicycles. In the distance, there were animals on the pasture.

The calm affected Steve in a strange way. He hasn’t really had a chance to travel, neither in this world, nor in the past, but now, far away from skyscrapers looming above him and all that neon, he thought about it. The war was over, Europe wasn't burning anymore, and the roads were open.

They managed to catch a radio station, and the trip went slightly livelier. Bruce even cheered up, losing the look of doomed fatigue he was spotting before. Watching him now, Steve suddenly realized why he still hadn't left: Bruce had nobody, and you could feel that in the way he talked, in his actions, in his almost child-like surprise when Steve tossed him a chocolate bar. It was a small, pointless purchase that caused an undeserving amount of gratitude. Bruce was almost as much an alien in this world as was Steve, and it was unthinkable to leave him alone.

The trouble started when Steve noticed how Bruce couldn't quite grasp the stick shift anymore. 

"What's going on?" Steve asked.

Bruce sighed frantically, almost wheezing, and grabbed his shoulder with his free hand. 

"Stop the car, Bruce. Do you hear me? Stop the car."

The car swerved to the side and raised a storm of dust, coming down the sideway. Steve turned the wheel to avoid driving into a tree, and Bruce pushed the brake pedal so abruptly, that Steve got pushed into the dashboard.

They stopped. The dust was settling down, and high grass was coming through windows – they rode into a field.

"What," said Steve, "the fuck was that about?"

He turned to look at Bruce, but the man didn't meet his gaze and just hugged himself tighter.

"Not now," he whispered with barely concealed panic. "No, it's alright, everything's fine. Please, not now."

"Bruce," Steve started, but got interrupted before he could say anything.

"Go away!" Bruce almost barked at him. "Right now, get away as fast as you can!"

He opened the door and practically threw himself outside, stumbled, almost fell down, made a couple of unsure steps, and stumbled again, finally disappearing from Steve's view.

Steve rushed after him. Bruce was sitting in the grass, curled into a ball and with his forehead in his lap. His shoulders were shaking with long, painful spasms, and Steve froze next to him in confusion.

"God, I'm begging you, go away," Bruce groaned. "Get in the car and just ride. Please. Right now."

"I'm not going anywhere," answered Steve, almost angry. He got on his knees next to Bruce and tried to touch the man's shoulder, but Bruce recoiled with a hiss. "You need help."

"It's you who needs help," Bruce raised his face. It was twisted either in pain, or fury, even his eyes looked almost swampy green, the anger in his voice almost tangible. He looked nothing like a calm, soft man, almost too kind at times that Steve was used to.

Steve mentally went through possible explanations. Was it a disease? A mental disorder? A result of working with poisonous substances? Is that why doctor Banner was trying to run away?

"Bruce," Steve touched his shoulder again, and this time the man only winced. "I'm not leaving. What is it? Do you need medication? Do you have it?"

"No," Bruce almost laughed. "I don't have medication. God, you're an insufferable fool," he breathed in, wheezing. "Please, go away."

"I won't," Steve repeated.

The muscles under his hand went through another spasm. Bruce curled around himself even tighter, clenching his teeth so hard Steve could almost hear it. He was breathing heavily – like a dog, with loud noises erupting from his chest every timed he seemed to have almost forcefully pushed air into his lungs and let it out. 

"You need to calm down," said Steve, softly. "You'll calm down, and we'll go see a doctor. I'll find one that won't report our visit, I have connections. They’ll help you. Just calm down, get in the car, I can drive, I did it before. We'll go to a city, we'll..."

Steve paused, for a moment. Hearing somebody speak was apparently calming Bruce down, he was breathing easier and didn't have spasms as often. But what could you talk about to a person you didn't really know that was fighting a strange disease in the middle of a field?

"I," Steve hesitated, but decided to keep talking, his voice soft and convincing. "I want to help. Not because I need anything from you, I don't, not anymore. I just want to help."

The most difficult thing was watching his words to not touch upon anything potentially traumatic. What could he talk about? The war?

"I used to draw pictures, before, when I was nervous." It wasn't the most intelligent thing to say, but what else was there for him? Talking about scientists? He couldn't do that. Talking about Hank and his ants? He couldn't do that either. Or maybe, about his mother dying from tuberculosis? That was out of the question. "I drew them for anyone who asked, and guys sent them to their sweethearts, or parents, to people who waited for them to come back from war – their friends, brothers, sisters. They managed to get me something to draw with even when there was nothing to eat. Even when the squad spent days sitting in trenches."

He was talking about the pictures, the funny stuff that happened, recalled some war stories, even talked about his animosity to mobile phones. He didn't know how much time had passed, but Bruce never made a sound.

Finally, Steve breathed out and stopped talking. He sat straight on the ground, hugging Bruce's shoulders and listening to him breathe. A couple of feet from them he noticed the glasses crushed and pushed into the ground.

Bruce came to his senses abruptly. He raised his head and looked at Steve through the tousled hair falling on his forehead.

"You're crazy," he said. "I was right when I just met you, you're absolutely crazy."

"You're welcome?" answered Steve.

He got up, brushed off the grass from his knees and gave Bruce his hand. The man looked at it for a moment in silence before taking it.

"You've no idea what danger you've just been in." Bruce made a couple of steps towards the pickup, but swayed, and Steve had to catch him. "You could die."

"I could've died dozens of times at war," said Steve, undisturbed. "We're not going anywhere today. I'll drive the car behind these trees," he waved at the side of the road. "We'll sit down, rest, and you can tell me everything if you want to."

"If I want to?"

Steve simply nodded.

It'd been quite a while since Steve drove a car last time. Tony showed him his collection, but of course, just sitting behind a wheel and actually driving were two completely different things. Then again, the pickup wasn't all that different from the cars Steve was used to. Bruce didn't even need to help with anything.

He looked exhausted and pale after his episode, with dull lifeless eyes. Steve wistfully thought of a shower: warm water would've helped them both now.

"How are you?" he asked, rolling down the sleeping bag.

Bruce's shoulders twitched and he carefully sat down, with his back to a wheel once again.

It was still bright, the sun just started going down, and the earth was still emitting a pleasant warmth, so Steve decided against starting a fire just yet.

"I could never hold him back," Bruce said. "He didn't come all that often, but..." A nervous smile twisted his face. "When he did want to come, I could do nothing."

"I don't understand," answered Steve, softly. He got no answer and, turning to Bruce, was surprised to notice that the man fell asleep in an uncomfortable position, with his head falling back. Steve sighed, carefully covered him with a blanket and took a couple sheets of paper and a pencil out of his backpack. He wasn't joking about the pictures.

Bruce woke up when it already went dark. Steve didn't know if it was the fire cracking that woke him, or if he just had enough of sleep, but he heard a rustling sound and turned around.

"Sorry," he said. "Are you hungry?"

Steve's hands were stained with charcoal – he could think of nothing better to use when his pencil broke. The sheets of paper around Steve had Tony's armor drawn on all of them – after seeing it once, Steve just couldn't get it out of his head.

"Don't apologize," answered Bruce, softly, tearing his gaze away from the pictures. "We need to talk."

Steve poured some water from a plastic bottle on his hands and tried to get them clean.

"You don't have to," he repeated, just in case. "We all have secrets."

"Well," Bruce nodded at Steve, "you shared yours. It's probably my turn."

He reached for his pockets and, not finding his glasses there, frowned.

"We decided to recreate the serum. Well, actually, the government dug up some old archives, found mentions of the project and decided that, with new technology of these days, we wouldn't repeat the same mistakes," Bruce's voice was steady, calm, as if he was reading a lecture. "We thought... well, you know how it is. We thought we could use it to help people. Help ourselves. I was so inspired."

His hands started shaking again, and Steve touched his wrist.

"I tested it on myself," said Bruce. "Not intentionally, mind, it just happened, but that was the most important mistake in my life."

"What happened?" asked Steve, after they've spent a few minutes in silence.

"The witnesses in Sandy Valley said a giant green monster destroyed their homes. That's where the theory came from, that there was a gas leak because of the earthquake. Then it was chalked up to a gamma-radiation explosion in one of the labs."

That was true, Steve heard something along those lines from Janet.

"The truth is," Bruce continued, "I was the giant green monster. God," he laughed harshly. "Never said that out loud. It's so funny."

Steve didn't find it funny. He kept watching Bruce intensely for the signs of a new episode. There weren't any. Steve also didn't see any signs that Bruce was lying, and he didn't really have a reason to.

"A green monster?"

"Hulk," added Bruce. "That's what he calls himself. Doctor Banner and Mister Hulk. It's kind of ironic, really."

"Bruce..."

"Is that too crazy for a guy from the forties with a reactor in his chest?"

Steve closed his eyes and counted to ten. He had dealt with people having meltdowns before, but soldiers or Janet crying were one thing, and the scientist claiming he could turn into a monster was quite another.

"You can't control him," said Steve.

"He's strong, stronger than anything you can imagine. And huge. A tank cannon barely left any bruises on him, and bullets were just bouncing off." Bruce clasped his hands together. "No, I can't control him. I can see everything, though. I understand everything, I just can't do anything about it. The moment I get angry... or stressed, or worried, he tries to get out twice as hard as he usually does. And there's nothing, nothing I can do."

Steve ended up in the world that had particles that could miniaturize a person to a size of an ant; that had an eccentric guy who made an amazing suit of armor just because he got bored. It had a time machine, and internet, and newspapers on esotericism. And yet, Steve found it easier to believe Bruce was suffering from some kind of personality disorder than that he was sharing his mind with a deadly beast.

"I get it," said Bruce. "How impossible it sounds. I'd rather it wasn't true as well. I'll even get it if you say I lost my mind."

"I believe you," Steve answered faster than he could think. Bruce looked at him. His eyes glowed in the light of fire.

"This was the first time I could hold him back," he sighed and reached for the bottle of water. Steve belatedly remembered to hand him the bag with food.

"Maybe you just shouldn't be alone?" suggested Steve. "Maybe, you just need motivation? Somebody to be around so you'd have a reason to hold... the Hulk. Is that what you call him?"

"He calls himself that," Bruce corrected him. "I can't risk it."

"I understand," said Steve, softly. "That's why I'm suggesting we start with little things."

While he was getting his backpack, Bruce kept speaking in a slow, monotone voice.

"The last time I lost it before I came to Alabama." Something was making a rustling sound, probably the bag in Bruce's hands. "I destroyed a house. I was lucky it was in the night, I came back to myself, gathered my things and left before dawn."

Steve sat down on the grass across from Bruce, opened the backpack and reached with his hand to the bottom. The gun was still there – it still felt as heavy and cold in his fingers, small and just tangible enough to almost allow you to forget its presence.

The light from the fire cast shadows on Bruce's face. He coughed and put aside a cookie he hadn't finished.

"I've tried," he muttered. "It doesn't work."

"What?" asked Steve, confused. "Oh god, no. I'm not suggesting you shoot yourself. You've tried it?"

"The adrenalin spike made me turn into the Hulk, and he spitted out the bullet." Bruce rubbed his face with a side of his hand, touched his nose bridge, but, finding no glasses there, put his hand down. "It hurt to swallow for a couple of days, and that was it."

The conversation was clearly going in the wrong direction, at least, not the direction Steve wanted it to go in. He gave an awkward cough and handed the gun to Bruce, handle forward. 

"Take it."

"Why?" asked Bruce, his voice cautious. "I don't even know how to use it."

"I'll teach you," Steve paused. "As for why... it'd work better if you took up eastern martial arts, but that requires time, and you don't have a lot of it. Nothing calms a person down as the knowledge they can protect themselves. Maybe, Hulk won't need to take over your body, if Bruce is save."

Bruce laughed, briefly. He took the gun, carefully and almost with fear, as if Steve was asking him to touch a wild animal.

"It's like I have a multiple personality disorder," he said in a tired voice. "Who knows, maybe Hulk is from Yugoslavia. I've never thought to ask."

Steve didn't understand, but that was alright. People around him referenced modern culture all the time, and he wasn't quite versed in it yet. Sometimes he asked to clarify, but more often than not he just chose to ignore it.

"All you need to know," said Steve instead, "you already know," he dragged his finger along the barrel and touched the trigger, "you aim, you press the trigger, the shot gets fired. That's it."

Steve raised his eyes.

"The main thing is the safeguard. There's two in your case. This one, mechanical, blocks the trigger," he let go of Bruce's hand. "And the gun itself is your safeguard against Hulk."

It was just a theory, a blind belief of a soldier that guns meant protection. Steve himself knew that feeling of anger leaving him and settling down somewhere inside when he touched the cold metal of the armor.

"I've no license," Bruce shook his head, raised the gun and squinted, aiming at some point in the field. "But that's probably the last thing that should worry me."

Steve smirked, moved back and lied down on the blanket spread on the ground, looking at the night sky.

"We can shoot at trees in the morning," he said. "I'll draw us a target."

Bruce didn't answer. Sometime later Steve felt himself being paralyzed by his tiredness, making him half-asleep. He was listening to the fire creaking and Bruce's breath, and apparently, counting stars. Reed and Ben were somewhere up there, on the planet's orbit, their rocket should've already left. During the last phone call, Reed promised to contact him and show him cosmos through a camera.

"Did you have someone?" Bruce asked in a suddenly loud voice. "Back there, in your world?"

Steve sighed.

"I had the war," he said. "And the country I've sworn to protect."

He also had Gail, but Gail stayed in America, and Steve left for war. Remembering her caused a shot of pain, the loss of a chance at a future that Steve suffered the moment he signed up for the Iron Man project. He didn't regret it, and he tried not to look back, not to think how everything could've been different.

Then again, he also could've tested the serum, became a monster and died without accomplishing anything.

"You've lost someone," guessed Steve.

"Betty," answered Bruce. "I called her once, but couldn't think of anything to say. Just breathed into the phone like an idiot. They probably told her I'd died. I don't know."

"I can pass a message," suggested Steve, fighting a yawn. "Or a note. Something from you."

He felt a blanket being draped over him.

"I'll think about it in the morning," said Bruce, softly. "Sleep. It's my turn to take watch."

***

Steve woke up feeling a weird tension in his chest. He reacted before he could think, calling the armor. The armor that, of course, was nowhere to be found in the middle of a field in Mississippi.

Pressing his hand to the reactor that felt cold to his fingers even through the hoodey, Steve sat up and listened. He didn't imagine it, there was a call, quiet, but insistent, almost like back in Tony's lab, except for one thing – it felt more direct. Almost conscious.

The day was dawning. Looking through the field, Steve saw clouds of smoke coming up on another side of it.

"Bruce," he said in a hoarse voice. "Bruce, wake up."

The man moved, still slowly and half-awake at first, but then he thrown the blanket away in a quick move. He searched around himself, trying to find his crushed glasses, and then got up.

"It's them." Bruce's voice was betraying his panic. "They came. They found us. Steve, quickly, get in the car, we need to go!"

Steve wanted to say it was pointless, but he couldn't find his voice. They were surrounded: the black cars that he saw when he stood up were coming from all sides. Wherever they try to go now, they will be stopped.

Then, there was the armor. The feeling was like phantom pain throbbing in his chest, as if someone pulled all his nerves into one knot and was taking them away one by one. But how? Why would the military have Tony Stark's technology?

He stepped closer to Bruce, touching his elbow.

"Just remember, you're not alone," Steve whispered. "You're armed, and I'm here, too. We'll figure something out, together."

The gun was lying on Bruce's sleeping bag, and Steve picked it up and his backpack that had cases of bullets in it. Bruce wasn't taking his eyes away from the horizon, and Steve started methodically and calmly loading the gun.

"Do they know, who you are?" he asked. Bruce took the gun and breathed out. 

"Of course, they do. General Ross is hunting me since... since that time," he breathed in again and let the air out through his clenched teeth. "Hulk hates him."

"Do you?"

Bruce gave him a bitter smile.

"No."

The cars were close now, and they were not black as Steve thought originally, but dark green instead. The most of them were armored carriers, with machine guns on their roofs. Steve winced. This was a small army, not just a team dispatched to apprehend a criminal.

"I don't think I know how to hate at all," said Bruce, almost inaudibly. "Or just generally feel strong emotions."

The feeling in Steve's chest was growing. He squeezed his hoodey so hard he felt his fingers hurt.

APCs stopped about a hundred feet away from them and their truck. Soldiers with rifles started getting out of cars and taking position, aiming at Bruce.

"Doctor Banner!" The voice sound deafening through a megaphone. "Release your hostage, surrender, and nobody will get hurt."

Steve gave Bruce a quick glance. The man looked calm, only his cheek was twitching. There were no spasms, like yesterday. Steve could only hope that his gun theory was working.

"I'm not a hostage!" He shouted. The man with the megaphone fell silent.

"Then you're under arrest for aiding a war criminal," the man announced, finally. "Put your gun down and surrender."

"They've probably got orders to put me to sleep, there'll be tranquilizer in their rifles," whispered Bruce. "I've never thought about that before. The tranquilizers. I thought..."

"It'll be fine," Steve repeated, pointlessly. They were pretty much doomed. Two men and a Beretta against eight APCs, four machine guns and who knew how many armed soldiers. Even if Steve wanted to be inadequately optimistic, he wouldn't claim they could get out of this alive. How much time did they have? Steve reckoned, about five minutes, before the commanding officer would lose his patience.

The morning sky was so bright blue it hurt Steve's eyes. He was long used to weather being unnaturally spiteful to human drama – the most horrible events in his life always happened under a clear sky.

He looked behind the APCs, to the east, where the sun was rising and almost flinched in shock.

The bright red armor was shining in the sunlight. Steve remembered how clunky and awkward his own armor looked in the air – it was hard to keep it up, it was always swaying to the side, and it rather jumped than actually flew. Tony's armor (Steve was sure that was it) soared like a bird and landed gracefully, the sight fascinating. Any other time, Steve would admire it, but now he just felt a rush of mindless irritation. What the hell was Tony doing here?

"Doctor Banner!" The man with the megaphone repeated. "Surrender!"

Even one rifle and a soldier with good aim would be enough to knock them both out, but the soldiers hesitated. APCs, machine guns, rifles, everything was aiming at Bruce – just a shot would be enough, but nobody moved. They were scared, Steve finally understood. They were scared of Hulk.

He made a step forward and raised his hands.

"Lower your weapons," Steve shouted. "Lower your weapons, and we'll talk."

He noticed the armor moving. Even with the reactor turned off, the movement echoed in his body. Steve stubbornly denied himself connection with it. He remembered how awful it was the last time, and he also remembered Tony saying it could kill him.

"Steve," Bruce muttered in a dull voice. "Steve, I can't... Steve."

"Come on, hold it, I'll figure something out. Remember the safeguard. Remember you're not alone."

In the corner of his eye, Steve noticed Bruce's hand shaking. The barrel of the gun was jumping back and forth, and Bruce's breath was coming quicker. Steve did the only thing his gut was telling him to do – he stood in the line of fire, covering Bruce with his back.

And that did it.

Steve felt rather than saw Tony rushing forward, the armor's movement aching in his chest, before all hell broke loose He clearly heard the click of a rifle's bolt and, moving on reflex, turned around and pushed Bruce to the ground, falling right next to him. He didn't even have time to think that they were doomed, all the thoughts were deafened by Bruce's desperate broken cry slowly changing into a roar. The machine gun went off, and Steve had a hysterical thought that Bruce was wrong, there were not tranquilizers. Nobody was here for peace; the army came to fight a war against one man.

The transformation was almost instantaneous: one moment Bruce was squirming on the ground, trying to get away from Steve, and the next something burst through. Hulk was really a giant green monster with his face twisted in rage. He had nothing in common with Bruce, other than tatters of the man's clothing. The weapons were raging all around, the bullets pierced the ground and tore through the truck, but nothing reached Steve. Hulk stood in the line of fire, and Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from him.

"A rocket!" he yelled, suddenly, getting up. "Hulk, get out!"

Instead, Hulk hugged Steve with both hands and jumped. The bullets were ricocheting somewhere, and the rocket whizzed by, raising the ground and throwing up the grass. Then, Steve closed his eyes, because the earth turning around him made his head spin.

He was screaming something, still squeezing his eyes, probably trying to call for Bruce or calm himself down. Hulk was hugging him so hard, that Steve was probably going to bruise. He had to curl around himself as much as he could.

Hulk released him suddenly, and Steve rolled to the ground, helpless, almost hitting his head on roots of a tree. They ended up in a forest, apparently. Lying on his back, Steve saw tops of trees broken by Hulk and pieces of the sky.

How far away did they get?

Where were the soldier?

Where was...

He didn't have time to finish that last question, even in his thought: a shot of pain squeezed his chest, and Steve crawled, till he hit a tree with his back. Hulk stood next to him with a grim expression on his face.

It was the first time Steve saw him. It was the first time Steve saw anything like that – a huge monster, gigantic and powerful, half a human and half a beast that had nothing of Bruce's broken vulnerability in him. He was frightening. He was so frightening, that Steve felt his throat constrict, and he saw a lot of terrifying things during his lifetime.

The beast, as if feeling his fear, looked at him.

"Bruce?" Steve called, unsure.

"Hulk," answered the beast. "No Bruce."

He turned around, breaking a twig with his shoulder, made a step toward Steve, and the next moment red and gold armor fell upon him.

Steve wasn't quite sure if it was supposed to be an actual attack, but Hulk reacted immediately: he grabbed the armor and pushed it into the ground so hard it crumpled. There was a flash, white and blue fire burned Hulk's chest, the beast roared, raised the armor above his head and thrown it away.

"Wait!" Steve shouted, trying to get up. "Bruce... Hulk, wait! It's a friend!"

Hulk didn't hear. He grabbed the crumpled armor and crushed it with his body. There was a sound of hinges breaking, another shot of pain in Steve's chest, but he ignored it and rushed forward. He clutched Hulk's green hand, clenched his teeth and tried to pull Hulk away.

"Hulk!" he kept shouting. "Hulk, it's a friend! Stop this! Calm down!"

It was probably useless and doomed to fail, like trying to take a bone from a rabid dog, but Steve had to do something. Some minutes later, Hulk finally surrendered.

He stopped, looking at Steve with a mix of confusion and fury, and stepped away. Steve's eyes were glued to the armor. It was crumpled in places, the left arm looked like it was ruined beyond recognition, and what's most important, the man inside of it had shown no signs of life.

"Tony?" Steve called, softly.

He didn't know how to approach him, and what touches would cause even more pain. One thing he had to do was take away the helmet and check the breath, but, as Steve touched the body of the armor with the tips of his fingers, doing it manually seemed impossible.

Tony wasn't moving. His left hand was a bloody mess: the sight of torn pieces of metal piercing his skin made Steve's head feel fuzzy. Doing nothing any longer seemed impossible, and Steve did the only thing he could think of: he connected to the armor.

Everything went blurry before his eyes, and every piece of his body hurt. Steve bit into his hand to stop himself from screaming. The armor was trying to talk to him, and the buzz of it in his head made it harder to concentrate. Only on his third try, he managed to repeat a mental command, and on the fourth try he figured out it was pointless.

"Open the helmet," Steve ordered, quietly. "Open the bloody helmet!"

Nothing happened for a moment, and then the mechanism gave in with a squeal, the face panel slid away, and Steve finally saw Tony. Only now, Steve understood what the armor was trying to tell him: Tony's readings – the pressure, the pulse, how much blood he was losing. It was all very confusing, and Steve shook his head, going out of his daze, and turned the connection off.

Tony was alive - that was the most important thing. They just needed to get him to a hospital.

Hulk was still standing next to them.

"Metal bug," he grunted. Even his voice sounded inhumanely powerful. "There's a human inside."

"You need to go," said Steve, carefully touching Tony's forehead. "Ross can find us again."

Hulk breathed out noisily, and Steve looked around. The monster, the beast that Ross's little army was so scared of, looked at Steve, as if expecting something.

"What..." started Steve, and Hulk lowered his head, making him look animalistic and threatening. "You're not leaving without me?" Hulk nodded. "I'm not leaving without Tony."

Steve was speaking cautiously, thinking about his every word, and he still wasn't sure he was doing things the right way. From what Bruce told me, it seemed that Hulk was irrational, mad, angry like a murder machine, but looking at him now, it was hard not to admit that he protected Steve.

Maybe, Bruce was wrong about him.

Hulk breathed out again, and Steve turned back to Tony and recoiled from him the moment he saw him: the armor was disassembling by itself; various parts were coming apart and flying away, falling on the grass. In less than a minute the only part of it left were the plates around Tony's left hand that were probably damaged too much to come off.

Under the armor, Tony was wearing regular jeans and a white t-shirt that was smeared with blood.

"I think," Tony coughed, "I think my baby is not capable of withstanding an attack from a giant green monster."

He opened his eyes and looked at Steve.

"Hi. You're okay? I'm glad. And this, I'm guessing, is Doctor Banner."

Hulk roared at his words, and Tony gave a hoarse broken laugh.

The shock left Steve without words. All his military experience was telling him that a man whose hand turned into a bloody mess was supposed to thrash in agony or lose his conscience, not try to be witty.

As if reading his words, Tony looked at his mangled hand and squirmed.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"My hand is broken in three places," Tony raised his eyebrow. "A piece of metal cut through my tendons, and I can't move a finger. No, Steve, I'm not in pain."

He sat up, awkwardly, leaning on his right hand, looked at the trashed ground and whistled. The pieces of armor flew closer and, in a matter of seconds, assembled into a rough image of a person.

Steve looked away.

"You need to go to a hospital," he insisted. "You've lost a lot of blood."

"I know exactly how much blood I've lost," said Tony. "But no, I don't need a hospital. Armor, determine our location. I hope this piece of trash still has a working GPS."

Empty sockets of the armor burned bright blue.

"Fifty-eight miles to the east from Yazoo City, sir," responded the armor.

"Now tell me," Tony continued, unperturbed. "Where's general Ross now."

"Twenty-seven miles from your current location, sir."

"Direct him somewhere... somewhere in Memphis, let him look for us there." He paused for a moment. "Twenty-seven miles, huh? Cool. Doctor Banner, congratulations: you'd be unbeatable at marathon."

"Tony," Steve said in a warning tone, "this is no joke."

Steve wondered if the armor had a system for injecting painkillers into the blood stream. Scientists working on project Iron Man were thinking of something like that. Steve raised his hand to touch Tony's neck and at least feel his pulse, but the man stopped him with quiet words:

"Don't. Better not touch me now."

Steve would've probably kept standing with his hand in the air, if Hulk didn't rip a tree out of the ground, right to its roots, with one smooth movement. Hulk threw it down and sat on it, crossing his hands across his chest.

"Impressive," Tony whistled again. "Can you raise an elephant with one hand?"

Hulk frowned and clenched his fists.

"Oh god," Steve groaned. "Please, Hulk, ignore him. And you!" Steve looked at Tony. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You can sing me a lullaby," the man answered. "I need some time to recuperate. You and Banner can play hide-and-seek in the meantime."

"Hulk," Steve corrected in a tired voice, before the monster had a chance to get mad again. "His name is Hulk."

He was exhausted, not because of the danger, but the way he usually got after controlling the armor for too long. He felt nauseous again. Tony still looked like a man with a broken and mangled hand - there were visible drops of sweat on his forehead, and his lip was twitching, as if he was trying to stop his face from making a grimace of pain. He was also slightly moving the fingers of his right healthy hand.

"Hulk will play hide-and-seek with the metal bug," Steve turned to look at Hulk, and the beast gave him a satisfied grin. "Hulk will hide it far away. It talks too much."

"Is that supposed to be about me?" Tony asked, displeased, still not opening his eyes. "Cute."

"You attacked him. I think he doesn't really like you."

The whole situation was making Steve mad. He wasn't used to doing nothing when his friends needed help, and that was exactly what Tony asked him to do. Steve was basically shaking from how useless he felt. All his training yelled at him that he needed to put a splint on the hand, clean the wound and immediately get a doctor.

"I thought," said Tony, slowly and quietly, "that he killed you. And your phone wasn't working again."

"You didn't have to..."

"I did!" Tony coughed and glared at Steve. "I hacked the files too late and found out I sent you to a monster. How should’ve I known that you'll become friends?"

He stood up, grasping at a tree, straightened his shoulders and whistled. The armor turned its head on his call.

Steve looked, irrationally annoyed, as the blood dripped from Tony's fingers. He was just hoping they could still save the arm. How advanced was medicine these days, anyway?

"Calculate the fastest route to Yazoo City. Away from the main roads."

The armor stood silent for half a minute and then responded:

"The route is calculated, sir."

"Great. Steve," Tony swayed, turning on his heels. "You'll have to ride your big green friend."

"You need to go to a hospital," Steve said again.

His stubbornness was apparently starting to annoy Tony. He tried to cross his hands, swore and rubbed his forehead nervously, leaving red lines on it.

"Alright," he said. "I need to explain our course of action, I guess. We're going to get to the nearest gas station, get some food and water, then we'll get the rest of the metal out of my hand, and, since you insist on it so much, I'll allow you to make a splint. Then we'll get on a train and go back to New York. You'll work in your shop again, and I'll rebuild the armor, so it doesn't crush me next time. Deal?"

"Of course, not," Steve retorted. "You can lose your hand if you just leave it be. I've no idea, why you're still conscious, maybe it's the painkillers, but they'll stop working soon..."

Tony laughed, sardonically.

"There're no painkillers, Rogers," he cut off. "I'm sorry I'm not screaming my lungs out from all the pain, but that's just how I am, blame my late mother for spending too much time in the lab while pregnant."

Steve frowned in confusion. To his utter horror, Tony grabbed the wrist of his left hand with his right and raised it.

"Watch it," he said, touching a big piece of metal sticking into him with his thumb. "Carefully."

In the place, where the metal was pressing into the meat of his arm, new skin was already growing - thin and slightly pink, but definitely healing.

"See? In a couple of hours you'll have to break my bones again."

"Break?" Hulk cheered up.

Tony gave him a nervous glance and Steve clenched his teeth, fighting his thoughts. The main thing when trying to survive was listening to someone who knew the situation better than you did. But could he trust Tony? He was hurt and tired, how adequate was his behavior?

Steve realized that he was once more desperately lacking information and knowledge.

"Hulk," Steve turned to the beast. "Can you help us a bit more?"

Hulk grimaced, as if this whole thing was annoying him, and reached out his hand. Grasping it, Steve had a thought that Hulk could just press his fist and break Steve like a doll. He could only hope Hulk wouldn't do that. Hulk raised Steve, looked around and put the man on his shoulders.

"Nice," Tony smirked. He was looking even more pathetic from Steve's height: his hand was hanging like a rag, and Tony was visibly shaking. "I don't know about hide-and-seek, but we're definitely going to play chase."

He moved his head, and the armor reacted instantly, covering his body again, except for the gap where it had to be connecting to the left hand. Tony rose up in the air and flew forward. Steve might've imagined it, but he thought Hulk roared excitedly, before following the armor.

Steve almost dropped, when they finally stopped. The world was spinning in front of his eyes, and his left cheek was scratched - Hulk was moving through the forest not paying any attention to the trees. 

"Down?" Steve asked in a choked voice.

Hulk snorted and put him down, gently supporting his head.

Tony was still in the armor, the empty gaze of it directed at low buildings in the distance. He didn't react to the noise or to the touch of Steve's hand, and Steve felt helpless anger again, directed first and foremost at himself.

"Tony," he called again, pressing the panel on the armor's chest. "Tony! Dammit."

Steve wouldn't survive another connection to the armor, so he touched, very carefully, Tony's opened, broken hand. A shot of pain ran suddenly through his fingers, but the armor moved, and the face panel slid away.

"I saw a beautiful dream," Tony muttered in thought. "There were girls in bikini and a huge table with cheeseburgers." The armor disassembled again, and Tony swayed on his feet. "You were there, too."

"You're delusional." Steve breathed out, relieved, and cleaned his hand on his trousers. "I hope I wasn't in a bikini." Despite Tony's protests, Steve pulled the man's hand around his shoulders and hugged him. "Let's go."

"You weren't in a bikini," Tony answered, pulling away from Steve's hands. "You were in the armor."

They fell silent. Steve looked at Tony, trying to understand if he was joking, but the man's face was expressionless. He raised his eyebrow and smirked.

"I'm not going, Steve," he said, his voice gentle for some reason. "You should go. Buy some water and something disgusting that makes your rightful soldier body turn inside out. Fast-food, some fatty shit that doesn't need heating. And get some forceps and bandages. Me and doctor Hulk will wait for you here."

Hulk snorted. His grim, heavy gaze was sliding off buildings, as if he was considering going down there and wrecking the place.

"Hulk?" Steve called in an unsure voice. "Don't break him while I'm gone."

The beast rolled his shoulders, as if brushing off an annoying insect. Tony snorted, took a credit card out of his jeans and handed it to Steve.

"If the locals panic at the sight of the card, get back and we'll look for a more civilized place."

He shopped at a record speed and went back twenty minutes later, carrying a heavy bag. The first person he saw was Bruce Banner, who looked even worse than Tony. Steve put the bag down, and Tony immediately took a bottle of water and didn't stop gulping it until the water was almost gone. The rest he poured on his injured hand.

"I met doctor Banner," he said, cheerfully. "Doctor Banner ungraciously threw up at the sight of me, but I can’t blame him."

Bruce's face turned unhealthy green.

"I didn't mean to do that," he chocked out, "I... I'd..."

"It's okay, Bruce." The thought of having two injured instead of one on his shoulders made Steve feel dizzy. "Don't worry about it."

"Did you get forceps?" Tony asked. "Oh, great, thanks."

He opened and closed them a few times, and then, without a warning, pulled a piece of metal out of his hand. Even Steve felt nauseous, and Bruce straight up rushed to the bushes.

Tony didn't try to be witty anymore, he was concentrating hard, his eyebrows drawn together, his eyes dark, he was clearly in pain. He couldn't not be in pain, whatever he said and however well he managed to hold himself.

Steve took the bandages from the bag, rolled them out and pressed to Tony's hand, to the place he just pulled a piece of metal from. Tony's fingers started twitching: his tendons have probably healed.

How was it possible?

"Thanks," Tony muttered. "Don't worry, you'll have to put the bones back in their places. Have you ever seen an open fracture? Of course, you did. You've been to war." His words were getting muddled, but it probably helped him feel better, so Steve kept listening carefully. "You've probably seen worse things. Limbs torn apart, heads? Had to piece people back together? You were a captain, so you must’ve had soldiers under your command."

Tony paused, pulling a shard that was deeper than others.

"People are disgusting," he sighed, at last. "They're disgusting, 'cause they have a tendency to die."

Steve quickly pulled the bandage aside, and Tony managed to grasp his elbow with his broken fingers.

Tony sighed a few times and kept pulling the shards out, one by one. At some point, Steve lost the count. A pile of bright red metal collected on the ground. Tony had shadows under his eyes, and his hair stuck to his forehead, but he kept pulling out the pieces.

"I found the info on doctor Banner the next morning after our call," said Tony. "But your phone was already disconnected."

"I think I need a new one now."

"Oh. That's what I thought," Tony froze, looking at a white piece in his forceps. "A bone. Lovely." He'd thrown it away to the pile and looked at his hand, carefully, massaging it with another. "I... well, not me, the Iron Man sometimes works for the government, when things get tough. Officially, they're called consultations, but we both know what it means. Ross called me to hunt a dangerous criminal, I put two and two together, and here I am."

Steve felt Tony's fingers pressing harder at his hand.

"The rest was easy," he muttered. "That thing in your chest, it's like a magnet for the armor. I could feel you from a mile away."

So, Steve was responsible for him and Bruce being found so quickly after all. If they've separated earlier, maybe, none of it would've happened.

"That's the whole story," Tony concluded. "Have you ever done jigsaw puzzles? You're about to learn how to do a human version of it."

The rest Steve remembered only vaguely. He put all emotions aside, everything that could get in the way of him doing what he had to do, and carefully assembled Tony's hand. Any mistake would cause him pain, and Steve couldn't allow that. He'd already made too many mistakes.

Steve came back to himself when Tony, exhausted, leaned on his shoulder. He froze, listening for the man's breathing, but Tony recoiled almost immediately.

"Good job," he commented, looking at his bandaged hand. "You ever wanted to be a doctor? Oh, right," Tony gave him a crooked grin. "I remember. An artist, right?"

Steve felt completely empty. Tony's words buzzed in the air, but Steve couldn't understand him, instead hearing other commands. He reached for the bag on instinct.

"Food! God, you're a miracle. This is exactly what I need."

Tony grabbed a couple of burgers and swallowed them, barely giving himself time to unwrap them, let alone chew. Steve didn't like looking at him, because he still felt nauseous. He didn't want to leave Tony's side, though, or even move away far enough that their hands would stop touching. He made himself turn away and look around. 

Bruce was sitting in a tree's shadow, hugging his knees. Making another effort to move away, Steve went to him and sat down on the grass.

"Hey," he called, quietly. "How are you doing?"

Bruce bit his lip and shook his head.

"Nobody's got hurt? I mean..."

"Hulk saved me," said Steve and gave him an unsure smile, looking at Bruce's shocked expression. "He shielded me from the bullets and carried me away, I’m guessing, to what he considered a safe place. I think he's not as bad as everybody thinks."

"Are you joking?" Tony interrupted. "That lovely guy crushed my armor."

"Mister Stark, I'm..."

"He's joking," Steve said, exhausted. "It's okay."

He couldn't even imagine why Tony didn't lose his conscience or how exactly he managed to at least partially restore his hand in such a short time, but, to be honest, he couldn't really care. Be it a miracle or just modern technology, Steve was too tired to figure it out, and the important thing was that Tony was relatively fine.

They sat in silence for a while. Bruce was shaking from the cold – all his clothes were in tatters. Steve gave him his hoodey. It was quite dirty and wrinkled, but it was still better than nothing.

Tony threw away the last piece of wrapping paper and stood up, stretching his back with a cracking noise. His t-shirt was still bloodied, as was his forehead, and he looked exhausted and drained, but Steve suspected he didn't look much better himself.

"Here's the plan," Tony said, his voice much more confident and strong than half an hour before. "We're going into town, getting some money... do they have ATMs? I hope so, the city with a train station cannot not have ATMs. So, we get the money, buy some clothes and get back to New York. Doctor Banner?"

"I'm not coming," said Bruce, softly. He raised his head from his crossed hands. "I can't go to big cities."

"I hate circumstances ruining my plans," Tony winced. "But you still clearly need clothes and some money, right?"

Bruce shrugged.

"Hulk won't let me die."

"I'm happy for you and Hulk," said Tony. He gave the armor a pointed gaze and it started assembling into a moderately sized suitcase. "Steve, I'm afraid you'll have to carry him, or he'll run away." He paused for a moment. "I used to make chips for animals at some point, but it quickly got boring. I still have a few, though."

"That's a terrible joke," noticed Steve.

"Who says I'm joking?" Tony answered, unperturbed. He took the case and turned towards the city. "Well?"

Steve caught up to him while he was going down the hill. Bruce was stumbling behind, looking distractedly at the town lying in front of them.

"We need to talk," said Steve.

"I'd bet this is going to be a Serious Conversation," answered Tony. He looked like a man who just got assaulted, but at least his hand was bandaged up and not swinging down like a piece of bloodied cloth. "Can we postpone it till we get home?"

"Of course," Steve nodded. "I want you to make the armor for me."

Tony almost stumbled, and Steve belatedly got scared that he'd fall and break all the bones they just put back in their places. When he looked at Steve again, his face was beaming with absolute, pure, frightening happiness.

"This isn't even my birthday," he snorted. "Will I always have to break my bones to get access to your body?"

The words sounded loaded, but Steve, too used to the modern vague morals, just ignored it.

"And you'll have to tell me, why your wound healed in half an hour."

"I will," Tony suddenly agreed easier than Steve expected. "If the phrase healing factor means anything to you."

Steve read about something like that in Erskine’s reports, long before project Iron Man, but for some reason, the phrase intrigued Bruce.

"Healing factor?" he asked, and they both stopped to look back at the doctor. "Do you mean gene X? You're a mutant?"

"That's not really politically correct," Tony hummed. "But no, I'm not a mutant. I'm, like we all are, just a victim of a series of unfortunate events."

Bruce shut up, embarrassed, but Steve was too tired to berate Tony. The rest of the way they made in silence. They were lucky, that the citizens of the town were surprisingly indifferent: if the shop owners were shocked by the sight of their buyers, they kept their thoughts to themselves. Steve was grateful for that: he had no energy for talking. Tony, on the other hand, got happier with every passing minute.   
Bruce was trying to become small and unnoticeable: he pushed his head down into his shoulders, raised the collar of his new jacket, which ironically only got him more attention.

While Tony was buying tickets to New York, Steve grabbed Bruce's shoulder and pulled him aside.

"Where will you go?" he asked.

Bruce shrugged.

"Mexico, Brazil, Cuba," he said, simply. "Either way, it's none of your business. Sorry, Steve," Bruce looked at him guiltily and spread his hands. "I know you want to help, but..."

Steve sort of expected this. Of course, he hoped Bruce would change his mind, start studying martial arts and learning breathing techniques. He stubbornly thought Bruce had a chance to control the monster inside. Yes, Hulk was dangerous, but any weapon is dangerous in the wrong hands.

"You need help. No, don't argue," Steve crossed his hands over his chest and frowned. "You're not even giving anyone a chance to do that."

Bruce narrowed his eyes in anger, but Steve kept going:

"You're a scientist. Think about it! Consider your options and weigh your chances."

"How long have we known each other, Steve?" Bruce asked, softly. "Three days? And you're offering to help, just like that?"

"And he's not the only one," said Tony. He stood to the left of Steve and waved the tickets in the air. "I had to buy all the tickets around our sits. I hate people crowding me. I'd buy the whole train, but then we'd have to wait a whole day here."

It was just like Tony – to buy the whole train just to feel slightly more comfortable. Steve hummed.

"So," Tony kept talking, "he's also offering my help. And, I think, Richards' and Pym's, the latter won't miss such a chance. How's that for company?"

Bruce blinked at them, surprised.

"You really are lucky about your scientists," he said. "But I'm not changing my mind."

Steve was going to argue, but Tony poked him in the side and pulled him away.

"Alright, Doctor Banner knows better, what to do with his life. Say hi to Hulk. Let's go, Steve."

They made ten steps or so away, and Steve pulled away from Tony's hands, looking at him with disapproval.

"If you didn't want to help him, I get it, you don't have to. But I..."

"You will achieve nothing pressuring him. I know what I'm doing," Tony was going to touch his forehead, but froze, looking at his bandaged hand. "Trust me."

The train station was small and very traditional. If he ignored the modern clock on the wall and some tiny details, just for a moment Steve could imagine still being in his time. He closed his eyes. The ruckus of people passing by, an announcement about a train arriving, quiet music from the speakers. This train station, this whole city seemed fallen out from the time stream, slow and quiet. In his short time in this new world, Steve forgot how peaceful it could be.

"I trust you," he said. "Where to next?"

Tony nodded at a passage without a word. Then Steve looked back, Bruce was already gone.

On the train, Tony laid out their meager belongings, leaned back, relaxing, and stretched out his legs till the tips of his boots touched Steve's.

"I left a phone in his backpack, my card and my number," he said. "The channel's encrypted, so he can call when he'll figure out he needs it. I hope he's not an idiot."

"Me, too," answered Steve.

He didn't have time to say goodbye or ask, if Bruce wanted him to pass something to Betty, and it was weighing on his conscience, like any incomplete mission.

"Was it worth it?" asked Tony, looking at him from under his half-closed eyelids. "Did you learn what you wanted?"

Steve Rogers of this world lost his mind and became a murderer, and Bruce Banner, in a blind attempt to recreate Erskin's experiment, became a mindless beast. The Iron Man was sitting across from Steve, he had no reactor, and his arm that was torn apart, was healing in a matter of hours. Perhaps, this world didn't need another Iron Man, but it could do with Steve Rogers.

"Yeah," he said, slowly. "It was worth it."


	4. The armor and I are one

Steve once again patted himself on the back for cultivating a habit of carrying his documents and money in his pockets: the backpack was lost in Bruce's pickup that got shredded with bullets. But the backpack only contained a notebook with his drawings, a non-fiction book he borrowed from Reed and some warm clothes.

He asked Tony, if Ross could arrest them both for aiding a criminal, but the man brushed him off.

"If he figures out he has to look for a man that disappeared seventy years ago from a parallel universe, sure," he snorted. "I'm afraid the General lacks that kind of imagination."

"What about you, then?"

"I'm Tony Stark. I collect things. The contract that Ross signed with Iron Man stipulates that Tony Stark, a man that collects things, has no responsibility over actions of the man in the suit."

"They don't know you're Iron Man?" Steve asked, confused, and Tony shrugged.

"They don't need to."

The rest of the road Steve slept through, leaning with his head on the cold glass of the window. He woke up to the sound of rain, when the train was already approaching New York. The city decided to welcome them with bad weather.

"Are you busy next week?" asked Tony. Before Steve could say anything, though, he spoke again, "I'll call. A week should be enough for the arm to heal completely."

He looked distracted. The fingers of his bandaged hand were twitching softly, as if trying to press invisible keys.

"I've no phone," reminded him Steve. "Actually I think I'll..."

"Right," Tony gave him a quick glance. "The phone. Then I'll just come by."

There were still two days left of the vacation that Solomon gave Steve. He wanted to sit down and think – assess all pros and cons, figure out once and for all if he really wanted this. But it seemed Tony had different expectations.

Without his habitual suits Tony looked younger, even though Steve vaguely remembered him being five or so years older than Steve himself. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know anything about his companion, other than bits and pieces of information that internet provided him with, and the few words that Tony said himself.

Steve belatedly realized he said that all out loud. Tony raised his eyebrows and then smirked at him.

"Does that bother you? We can have dinner. I'll tell you all about myself, you'll tell me everything about yourself, all proper-like."

Steve gave him a confused gaze.

"I'm not going to poke around that thing in your chest if you don't trust me. No pressure, only mutual consent." Steve didn't say anything, and Tony explained, "I'm not of that sort, whatever media's been trying to convince you of."

They parted ways. Tony disappeared behind a thick wall of rain towards the road, and Steve headed to a subway station. It was already getting dark when he finally reached home. There were two recordings on the answering machine: one from Janet, who wanted to know how things were going, and another from Ben, who called just before take-off. His voice was shaking – was it excitement, or just bad connection, Steve couldn't say.

'I'll call when we land,' Ben said at the end of the call. 'I don't think they’re going to have a phone at the station.'

Steve had an unpleasant persistent feeling that a whole eternity passed, and not just four days. He spent an hour under the shower, washing off the grime and dirt, then carefully wrapped his clothes in adhesive tape and put it in the garbage. Now that adrenalin left his bloodstream, he felt extremely tired – he didn't just fall asleep, but almost lost his consciousness the moment his head hit the pillow.

A couple of times he woke up after bizarre nightmares that he couldn't even recall completely, because thinking was even harder than trying to open his glued together eyelids. He was finally dragged from the bed by the insistent ringing of the doorbell– the guest, whoever that was, was most likely pressing it for a while and starting to lose patience.

Steve expected to see Tony, but as he opened the door, still not completely awake, he only saw a courier.

"You're Mister Rogers?"

"Yeah," Steve answered. The courier gave him a wide smile.

"Sign here for the delivery, please."

He handed Steve a small case and put a grey folder on it with papers that Steve probably should've definitely read before signing, but Steve saw the name of the sender and relaxed. Tony could be trusted in such things.

"A cool device you have there," the courier pointed at Steve's chest, humming. "What's it for?"

"It's a flashlight," answered Steve in a grim voice and slammed the door closed.

He opened the case on his way back and stared in confusion at a new phone – it looked flat and slick, as if it was made from one whole piece of plastic, and not small parts connected to each other. Knowing Tony, Steve was sure it was as expensive as it was advanced. He rolled it in his hands, closed the case carefully and pushed it aside.

The last day of his vacation Steve spent practically hugging his laptop, trying to find any mention of what happened on that field in Mississippi. The press was silent, the news channels as well. Whoever General Ross was, he knew how to cover his and Hulk's tracks. For a moment, Steve thought that all this cover-up was a bad sign and another proof that America that he loved and protected so fiercely was turning into something different from what he expected. But Steve tried to push those thoughts away: the country wasn't responsible for what a few of its people were doing.

Having finished that, Steve read up on mutants. Banner's slip up showed Steve there was still a lot of things he didn't know about this world. Then again, reading catchy article titles and drier language of scientific papers Steve stumbled upon familiar words: 'healing factor', 'mutation' and bright pictures brought back the memories of war. Steve met some strange guys back then. One of them, a Canadian, even saved Steve's life, cutting the chains around his armor with his claws. That wasn't what made Steve remember him, though: the guy swore and smoked so much it made Steve’s eyes tear up, and he almost dragged him to a brothel, just because, according to him, any self-respecting soldier should've already gone there. Steve just couldn't recall his name.

He expected the trip to change something in his course of life, but not much did. As soon as Steve went back to work, the routine dragged him down like a swamp: the same things he had to do over and over again, the clients that all looked alike and Solomon's eternally hungry dog were all still there. In some way, Steve came back to the same life he was trying to run away from.

"You look like you learned Zen and heard the God speak, but froze before the paradise gates, getting scared of Allah," Solomon told him one day.

"I don't even want to count how many religions you mashed into that one sentence," said Steve.

"The only thing that matters is, I'm right." Solomon took out a hand-rolled cigarette and gave Steve an amused look. "I can show you a quick way to learn the essence of the world, but you're going to refuse, and I won't insist, because I want people who come to the shop to see at least one sane person."

Solomon allowed his clients to smoke in the shop.

'You could do that anywhere before,' he explained, blowing out the sweet-smelling smoke. 'I liked it when you could do that anywhere. Just keep them away from paper.'

Steve didn't know how many laws Solomon was breaking just by being himself, but he supposed it was a crazy lot of them. Solomon wasn't a bad person, though. He was just different.

"What about the dog?"

They looked at the animal.

"But you're right about some things," admitted Steve.

That same evening, he decided to turn on the phone. As it turned out, turning it on was the easiest thing you could do with it.

His last phone that died under Bruce's boot in Alabama was simple. It could send messages and make calls, and that was all Steve needed from it. With the phone Tony sent him, though, he could probably launch a rocket into space. Steve randomly pressed some buttons and it opened contacts with only one number: Tony didn’t forget to program his number in but was obviously too busy to send instructions.

Steve pressed another button and almost flinched, when Tony's voice sounded from the dynamics:

"Yes?"

"Tony?"

"Oh," the voice on another end of the line sounded amused. "You turned it on, figures. I've suspected you'd shoot the box still in courier’s hands, and only then look at what's in it, so I sent a prototype."

"I'm not paranoid," Steve disagreed. 

"Yeah," said Tony and then erupted in a string of French expletives. "Damn French with their stupid habit of pretending they don't understand English. Yeah, idiot, I'm talking about you."

"Are you in France?" Steve asked, confused, and Tony laughed at him.

"In Paris. D'you want a pic of me with the Eifel tower?"

"What are you doing in France?"

"Oh, Steve," Tony got sidetracked again to yell at someone else. "We know each other so little, and you're already trying to control me?"

Steve thought, distractedly, that talking to Tony required so much patience it would be enough to lock Hulk in Doctor Banner's body forever.

"How's your arm?"

"I can't move my pinky," Tony answered immediately. "So the local bohemia thinks I'm an ignorant dumbass. I'm..." he hesitated, "I'm coming back in a couple of days. Do you still want all that stuff we talked about?"

Silence fell. Steve seriously considered saying no, but then remembered the small art shop on a quiet street in Brooklyn and, for some reason, Solomon's black dog.

"I still do," he said, quietly.

Tony's voice recovered its liveliness.

"Great. Wait for me, then." There was a sound of something clicking. "Shit. Pepper – you definitely need to meet Pepper – is showing me off to all these rich guys like a circus monkey. I hate this." Then, he repeated again, "I'm coming back in three days, Steve. Wait for me."

***

Steve always thought he was good at waiting. When he was in the trenches, sometimes he had to spend days under rain in dirty sleeping bags. He had to watch soldiers die, to strike in the exact right moment and change the course of battle. You had to wait for it, clenching your fists and biting your lip till it hurt, stopping yourself and stopping the armor that would listen even to a subconscious command. Steve learned proper control and patience very quickly.

All of it went out the window in these three days of waiting. Steve was horribly anxious every moment of every day, he slept badly, he constantly checked the phone and overreacted to every knock on the door – even if it was just a client in the shop – Steve turned around every single time, feeling fear and hope all at once. He was eager to see Tony and dreading what would follow at the same time. He felt as if he was in zero gravity, or falling down a rabbit's hole.

Steve imagined that's what it felt like to lose your mind.

On the third day, Solomon kicked him out of the shop.

Well, he took Steve's keys for the register and pushed him towards the door.

"Go away," he said. "I don't want to see your face. Like a high-schooler before his first time. No," he added, "I don't want to argue, don't want to hear any excuses. Come back when you stop scaring the clients away."

***

The first thing Steve saw after leaving the elevator were Tony's bright white shoes. They looked out of place in a dark small corridor, like even a shadow could tarnish them.

"It's disgusting, having idiots working for you," shared Tony, as a greeting, "you have to take care of everything yourself all the time."

He was holding a tablet in one hand and a brown paper bag in another. Taking a step closer, Steve felt a sharp smell of spices.

"Then again, Pepper says I don’t take care of anything, I just come and yell and ruin my reputation," Tony continued. He moved to press something on the tablet, frowned, as if only now noticing his hands were occupied, and touched the screen with his nose. "As if it can be ruined any further."

"Glad to see you," said Steve, barely holding back a smile.

He suddenly felt free, all the panic and fears of the last couple of days were gone. He made a final decision, just the way he used to decide everything before, and whatever the situation would bring, it couldn't be any worse.

They froze for a moment, watching Steve.

"I brought chinese," he shook the bag. "Entrance fee."

Steve opened the door and let Tony pass first – the man headed straight to the kitchen, threw the bag on the table and turned on the coffee machine. Steve watched him, not quite knowing what to say. His gaze stopped again and again at Tony's arm, until Tony finally noticed. He took off his jacket without a word and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt.

"Here, look at it all you want," he said.

The places where bones pierced his skin were covered in pink raised scars, like the ones from burns. Tony spread his fingers and brought them back together again – as he mentioned, the little finger was still not listening to him. But still, the wound looked like it was inflicted months ago, not just days.

"And that's it," said Tony, smug, buttoning up his sleeve. "It's a good thing Mister Hulk didn't tear it off completely. I hate when it happens, building up the muscle mass is the most tiresome thing. Awfully boring."

"I'm still finding it hard to believe it's possible at all," admitted Steve. Tony snorted, digging into the bag.

"You made a friend out of a giant green monster, Steve, and you're surprised by slightly accelerated healing? Unbelievable. Can you eat with chopsticks? No? I knew that. Sit down; I'm going to teach you."

Steve pulled out a chair, sat down, and Tony handed him chopsticks.

"Why did you come?" Steve asked, cautious. It didn't seem like Tony brought any tools for the operation, or the case with the armor, or even blueprints.

"Trying to make friends," Tony answered, matter-of-factly, "trying to make sure everything goes in the atmosphere of peace, love and the rest of that bullshit. Trying to make sure we both won't feel painfully embarrassed in the morning."

He leaned on the table in a move betraying his tiredness and looked at Steve.

"Trying to figure out if your declaration was an aftereffect of stress," he finished.

"It wasn't," said Steve. He looked Tony straight in the eyes, and for some time neither of them spoke. "But I still..." He hesitated, doubting that 'hope' was a good word of choice. "I still think I'll come back and this all will be a mistake."

"It will be," Tony shrugged. "Mistakes move progress forward. As a result of a mistake, an ordinary child became a genius and you ended up in the twenty first century. Don't underestimate mistakes."

Steve gave an unsure shrug and looked at chopsticks in his hand. Noticing his hesitation, Tony showed the way he was holding them, clicked them a couple of times and took something out of a small paper box.

"Do you know why I like the Chinese?" he asked, not even giving himself time to chew the food properly. "They have everything in abundance. I don't particularly like anything else about them, true, but this..."

Steve had no strong feelings about the Chinese, or any other nation, for that matter. Even during the war, he answered all provocative questions calmly. He didn't hate anyone, he just wanted to protect people.

Now, though, looking at utensils in his hands, he was willing to reconsider – he didn't hate, of course, but he most certainly didn't understand how you could possible eat with these things.

"Just use your hands?" Tony offered, sympathetically. "I'll bring pizza next time. I promise."

Later, when Steve was gathering all the empty boxes and cleaning up, Tony went to stand next to the window with his back to Steve. It was evening already, and the quiet neighborhood they were in plunged into the twilight, illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlights. They couldn't even hear cars – people rarely passed this street.

"You need to stop it," said Tony.

Steve raised his head.

"Stop waiting to return," Tony explained. "Stop looking back. Reed doesn't even know how he managed to get you here, how the machine works, and his head's too full of space and his emitters."

During the short time they knew each other, Steve got used to Tony pairing everything with a joke, with self-irony surprising for such a man. Now that he was talking seriously, even his stance looked different. The lack of proper lightning made it look like his face was hidden in the shadows, and Tony finally looked like the person media described him as. The genius, the gun dealer that suddenly abandoned his business without, however, losing any of his influence.

"I need to know your answer," Tony continued, without waiting for Steve to speak. "Steve, you're right, I can't entrust my armor to somebody I barely know. Just like you can't trust me with your metal heart." He turned to look at Steve. "But we can try."

"In the atmosphere of peace, love and all that bullshit?" asked Steve.

Tony smirked, and the illusion disappeared.

"Exactly. It's terribly important work."

"I didn't know men who operated on me during the war. Well, I knew their names, but I didn't know them."

"That's your chance to experience it differently, then, this time," Tony answered, cheerfully.

He walked through the room, picked up his jacket thrown on the back of a chair and stopped.

"There's a couple more things, Steve," he said. "I've made automated power sources before, but I've never seen one implanted in a human body. It's risky."

"I'm not afraid," Steve answered, calm.

"You can die."

"I could die at any moment," Steve breathed out, irritated. "I just knew it was worth the risk."

"You have to be sure of that now, too."

Looking serious really didn't suit Tony. Steve felt irrationally anxious, looking at him, but he wasn't afraid. He was even glad, deep in his heart. Maybe, the war made an adrenalin maniac out of him after all.

Tony blinked, smirking slightly.

"And another thing," he added, simply, "you'll probably have to move in with me. Richard's neighbor will have to look after his dying cactus."

That sounded quite reasonable. Steve remembered his body accommodating to the reactor and how long rehabilitation took the first time. The thought of going through it again made him feel weird, a strange mix of anxiety and excitement. He touched the metal piece in his chest in an anxious move that was instinctive, subconscious, like pulling your hair.

Tony kept watching him.

"I'll wait for as long as you need," he said. "Call me when you're absolutely sure."

Steve could say he was ready now, but something in Tony's eyes made him hold it back. Perhaps, he wasn't the only one who needed to be sure.

"Alright," he said instead. "I'll call."

***

Another week passed before Steve finally called Tony, after catching a glimpse of him in the news. On the screen, he was sitting next to a read-haired girl on some charity gala. The camera got a lucky shot of him smiling.

Before that moment, Steve was watching the phone with caution, like an enemy. He didn't understand how these things were supposed to work. He didn't really have friends; his relationships with people rarely crossed a line of friendly acquaintanceship. He had a girlfriend once, ages ago, in that different world, but even calling her that was reaching too far. Steve just started courting her when the war started, and that's where the relationship ended. Gail firmly announced she wasn't going to wait, and Steve... Steve got the reactor and the armor. Even now, talking to Tony, he often felt awkward and couldn’t properly speak, feeling like he was about to ruin everything with a single word. The thought that Steve was getting into something that was impossible to predict increased with every passing day.

Tony didn't answer his phone, but he did call back just a few moments later. Steve didn't even have time to put his phone down.

"Did you want something?" he spat out.

"I wasn't sure when my consent will start to matter," Steve answered. "So I decided to test my luck now. I saw you in the news."

"When did that happen?" Tony said in a puzzled voice. "Doesn't matter. Your consent always was going to matter. I've already prepared the equipment we're gonna need, which took some time, but..." Steve could hear metal clanging somewhere in the background. "Say goodbye to your work, get you things, the car will come get you... when will you be ready?"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Great." Tony sighed. "And what is it now?"

"Afternoon," Steve answered, cautiously. "Are you alright?"

"Absolutely! Working, rebuilding my poor armor piece by piece, getting my hand ready for complicated movements." Tony's chuckle was interrupted by a bang. "Whoops. Alright. Steve, Happy will come get you tomorrow. If not, that bloody armor killed me after all."

Steve didn't have time to answer – Tony hung up on him.

***

While Steve didn't understand mobile phones (which was somewhat funny, considering how quickly he figured out laptops), Solomon was a passionate hater of wireless networks, so the storeroom in the back of the shop had an apparatus adjusted to the wall that looked at least thirty years old – with a metal round disk you had to rotate to dial anyone. It rattled like a tin can tied to a bumper.

Solomon answered the phone only after ten in the evening, when the shop should've already been closed. He listened to Steve attentively, went quiet for a few moments and only then asked:

"You're going on an adventure, then, huh?"

"Yeah," Steve breathed out. Solomon laughed.

"I think that'll be good for you. How old are you? Twenty-five? Sometimes you look like my old man, and he was a pathetic goody two-shoes. So, good luck."

"Thanks." It was impossible to get angry at Solomon – impossible and useless. Especially, Steve noticed, as the man kind of had a right idea about him. 

"My shop's always open for you, by the way." 

Steve didn't even doubt that, but his decision felt like a point of no return. He was either going to change forever, or he was going to die.

It would be incredibly stupid to say Steve wasn't afraid of death. Everybody was afraid of it, they just showed it in different ways. It most likely even applied to Tony Stark, despite his bravado about healing factors. 

But that wasn't what made Steve afraid now. He was still clinging to the possibility of returning to his old life, and he understood that changing himself now would also make him useless for his own world, in addition to how he already felt useless to this one. He wouldn't be able to pilot his giant robot anymore; he wouldn't be able to help his country win the war. 

Perhaps, Steve kept thinking, as he packed his things, he could've reached some peace if he just learned the outcome of the war in this world. That wish was, at least, devoid of egoism.

Steve didn't regret leaving Reed's flat behind. He did give the only cactus Reed had to his neighbor, but he doubted Reed even remembered it. It was most likely Sue's gift, another attempt to instill in Reed the minimal skills required for taking care of another living thing, and that attempt failed just like all the others. Now, though, Sue, as well as Reed and Ben, were in space, the cactus was in good hands, and Steve was embarking on an adventure.

***

Happy met him at the entrance and gestured at the front door of the car:

"That's all your things?" he asked, puzzled, looking at a small bag in Steve's hands. "Tony said you were moving."

"I prefer travelling light."

"That's a good decision," Happy hummed, sitting behind the wheel. "Sometimes, a lady comes out, and the car barely closes with all her luggage. And that's just for a few days trip."

"I'm not a lady," answered Steve, and then asked all of a sudden, surprising himself, "does Tony invite a lot of people?"

At first, Happy didn't answer. He pursed his lips, squinted, looking somewhere in the distance, and sighed.

"You're the first," he said. "And Pepper, of course, but Pepper doesn't count, she practically lives at work. Well, I hope it doesn't count, otherwise I don't have a chance."

"Chance?" Steve prompted, without any real wish to know anything.

"I've been trying to ask her out for a month. First she was busy with work, then she had a vacation, then Tony stole her to France, so all hope rests on this Saturday."

The thought that maybe this Pepper Steve hadn't had a chance to meet yet just didn't want to go on a date, apparently, didn't occur to Happy. Of course, Steve didn't have enough information to offer any advice. During the short trip, however, he learned a lot more, including Pepper's favorite color, the book she carried everywhere and her ability to hold two phone conversations at once, not that Steve asked, but Happy, despite his menacing looks, turned out to be surprisingly friendly. 

He didn't, however, tell Steve anything about Tony.

***

From the gates, Steve proceeded alone, and the butler only met him at the door. Steve frowned, trying to remember his name. 

"Master is waiting for you in the drawing room," he said, opening the door wide in front of Steve and quickly disappearing in the dim corridor. The mansion's big windows were covered by heavy curtains that made one of the walls look like it was made out of fabric.

Steve was going to look around, but got distracted by the sound of footsteps: Tony appeared in a wide doorway, leaning on the wall. He was barefoot for some reason and looked very tired. He was holding a silver thermos with the fingertips of his left hand and was shadowing his eyes from the dim light of a corridor lamp with his right, as if it was blinding him.

"My father was a fan of everything huge," he said out of nowhere. "Even his ideas were huge, almost monstrously epic. This is his house."

He moved from the wall and headed towards a wide staircase. Steve followed him.

"You can take any room on the first floor, except for the last one on the left, Pepper lives there. She's in Milan now, but she has a nasty habit of coming back home unexpectedly. Then again, I'm pretty sure she's gonna like you, even if she suddenly finds you in her bed..."

"Tony," Steve called in a quiet voice. "Are you okay?"

Tony stopped and turned to look at him. He was standing a few steps higher than Steve, with his leg raised awkwardly in the air, and frowning at him in confusion.

"Yeah," he said and stumbled. "I think, I forgot what I left the lab for," his gaze fell on the thermos, "right. What time is it?"

"It's eleven," Steven answered, "Tony, have you slept?"

"I did," admitted Tony. He looked so sincere, that Steve didn't believe him at all. "Settle in and come back down, I've fixed the armor. And I've a few thoughts... on neural connections. I can only guess, how your reactor is constructed, but if I'm right, it will all go fast and well." He swayed and grabbed the banister. "Though, maybe, not today. But it will."

"Tony..."

"So, that’s that!" Tony interjected before he could say anything. "Find a room, I'm waiting downstairs. You'll find your way."

He went down the stairs, still swaying slightly from side to side, and soon disappeared from view. Judging by how he was leaning on walls, nothing was going to go anywhere in any way today.

Steve didn't waste time choosing a room and just entered the first one that was open. It was small and cozy, and didn't particularly fit with the rest of the grandiose house, but even then it was bigger than the living room in Reed's apartment.

Steve drew back curtains, opened the window and looked outside – an old habit of his making him survey the place he was going to spend the night in, even if nothing was really threatening him in this lifetime. The old paranoia kept him vigilant, and it did save his life a couple of times.

He threw his bag on a bed that looked huge and awfully soft (Steve hardly could imagine sleeping on it), paced around the room for a while, threw a glance at himself in the mirror and went to look for Tony.

As it turned out, he didn't remember the way at all. The last time, the armor was leading him, half-conscious and dazed. Now the corridors seemed to form a labyrinth. Steve roamed the place for a while, discovered a kitchen, two dining rooms, a library and even a hall with weapons, and only then he found his way to the familiar doors that opened as soon as Steve came near them.

Tony was in the room, sitting behind a desk with his head on his hands, breathing in a slow, measured rhythm that sleeping people have. There were tools scattered all around him, some metal bits, protective goggles, blueprints, there was even a screw stuck to his shoulder. With his hair disheveled and in a simple t-shirt Tony seemed dreadfully vulnerable for some reason, and Steve froze next to him, not knowing where to put his hands. He probably should've woken him and sent him to bed, but the whole situation was kind of embarrassing, like Steve saw something he wasn't supposed to.

"Tony," he called, quietly.

Tony sleepily moved his head.

"Tony, wake up," repeated Steve, touching his shoulder. "Go to bed."

"Is that an invitation?" muttered Tony. "I'm not sleeping. It's okay. I'm not sleeping."

He squinted, looking at Steve's hand, and made a rush, awkward move away. A line appeared between his eyebrows. He rubbed his forehead and reached for the thermos.

Steve was watching him carefully enough that he noticed that Tony was left-handed. The scars on Tony's arm were almost gone, leaving behind only pale uneven lines. Even his fingers healed up almost perfectly.

"I haven't told you about the armor yet," said Tony, looking up at Steve. "Do you know it can work unmanned? Could yours move without you? You just pull up the data from the cameras on the screens – and voila!"

Tony snapped his fingers, and the wide display in front of him lit up, showing the lab. Steve saw himself on the screen – a tiny, thin figure, and the back of Tony half-lying on the desk.

"But it's still really inconvenient," he muttered, sipping coffee from the thermos. "I'll make it truly portable someday, no cases, no heaps of metal, I just forget about it all the time..." His fingers twitched, and the picture on the screen changed.

"How are you doing this?" asked Steve. "This snapping thing?"

"What snapping thing?" Tony drawled back, confused.

"You give it orders from the outside of it, but you don't have... a reactor," Steve said in an unsure voice. "A control center."

"We've a trusting relationship." Tony breathed out, loudly. He dropped his head on his hands again and rubbed his temples, as if trying to chase away the sleepiness. "I polish it, it follows my orders."

He looked exhausted and, at least it seemed that way to Steve, was barely staying conscious. He could hardly be trusted with a pencil in this state, let alone a screwdriver.

"Go to bed," Steve repeated, and Tony grimaced.

"Napoleon slept four hours a day."

"Are you trying to conquer Russia?"

"I know a few Russians," Tony choked on a laugh. "If they're all that way, I really should go to bed. Here," he said, before Steve could interject, "I sleep here. You can wander around the mansion, talk to Jarvis, if you find him. He's a bit mad at me, so he's staying away."

Steve barely suppressed a smile. Tony's words all blended together, he was talking nonsense, probably just blurting out everything that was on his mind.

"About the reactor," he muttered, "we shouldn't have any secrets from each other with the amount of work we're about to do. So, about the reactor, not all control secrets are this exposed and scaring the ladies... I'm sure it does that, the thing in your chest can only excite a crazy scientist." Tony blinked. "I'm talking nonsense."

Steve hummed.

"Yeah, you do."

"I'll finish the thought." Tony twitched his fingers again, and the screen turned off. "I control the armor with nanobots. They're in my blood, and they're in the armor. I'm a genius in nanotech, actually, but you can’t learn that from Wikipedia. I edited the article." He shook his head. "Alright. That's enough. Sleep."

***

Walking around the mansion looking for Jarvis seemed like a bad idea to Steve, so he went to the library he discovered earlier. The sheer amount of books there made his head spin. Steve loved reading in his time, but the last few years, since the war started, his daily reading was military reports and intel on his opponents. Then, of course, there was also the manual for the armor that Steve learned by heart.

"Take this," said Jarvis, who appeared beside him quietly with a book in his hand. "I think you'll like it."

"What's it about?"

"About the war. About its absence. About the bombing of Dresden," he answered, putting it on a small table, bowed to Steve and left.

Steve stroked the soft cover of the book.

***

He and Tony didn't talk anymore that day. Steve read, occasionally pausing to wander around the house or eat, and Tony slept till evening. It seemed, they had the exact opposite routines – when Steve went to bed, Tony, judging by the noise coming from the corridor, just woke up. He called for Jarvis loudly and yelled at someone on the phone, so Steve decided not to interrupt.

He woke up, having felt someone's presence in the room, but, finding no gun under his pillow, just jumped up, putting his hands in a defensive position.

"Calm down, Jesus," Tony laughed quietly. "It's just me. Sorry, I didn't want to wake you up."

He was standing next to Steve's bed, looking surprisingly awake compared to how he was earlier.

Steve rubbed his face and shook his head.

"What time is it?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Four? Or five, I think," said Tony. His voice didn't betray any regret about that fact. 

Steve, frowning, followed his gaze. No sunlight was coming through the curtains, and the only source of light was the reactor in Steve's chest.

"You like the view?" he asked, irrationally irritated. Going to sleep, he didn't put a shirt on, and it seemed stupid to cover himself up with a sheet now. "Why are you here, Tony?"

"I... just had this thought, what if you weren't sleeping?" Tony shrugged. "I wasn't, and I'm kind of used to people adjusting to my schedule. That was a bad thought."

Steve was going to share his opinion on a rather useful habit of knocking before entering, but reconsidered: it wasn't his house after all, and Tony had all right to expect his rules to be followed here.

"I think our conversation got interrupted at the most interesting point yesterday."

Tony sounded and looked (Steve couldn't see clearly, but he was pretty sure) completely unperturbed. Evidently, barging in into his guest's bedroom at five o'clock in the morning and having conversations in complete darkness was completely par for the course for him.

"Yes," Steve hesitated, then sat down on the bed and paused, getting his breath under control. "You said you control the armor with nanobots."

"Oh," Tony laughed. Steve could almost feel his gaze on his skin. Maybe, his healing factor was paired with seeing in the dark. "That's so me. Being tired is worse than alcohol, completely loosens my tongue."

"So you were serious?" Steve asked, surprised.

"Absolutely," assured him Tony. "I'll get you a microscope if you don't believe me, but seriously, from a guy with a reactor in his chest..."

"Tony," interrupted Steve. "I think we should move this conversation somewhere."

There was a pause, then Steve heard Tony's chuckle.

"Right, not a good kind of bed talk, got it. I'll be in the kitchen. You can find the kitchen, right?"

Steve snorted. He heard the rustling sound of steps, a click of the door, then – a thud and Tony's hissing. Apparently, Steve was wrong about the night vision.

***

He took a shower, got dressed and went down twenty minutes later. The kitchen here was evidently Jarvis' domain: there were no curtains, and the room was filled with dim early morning light that outlined Tony's silhouette. The man was absent-mindedly doing something on his tablet with his free hand in his hair.

"Coffee?" he offered, without looking up. "Jarvis's still sleeping, but there's probably something in the fridge."

"Oatmeal?" Steve asked, on a reflex, and Tony looked haunted for a moment. 

"You're going to be his favorite. I'm already jealous. And no, I've no idea where Jarvis keeps it, but logic suggests milk is probably in the fridge."

Steve found oatmeal in one of the numerous drawers and discovered, with some difficulty, a pan in the kitchen's table. While Steve was organizing breakfast, Tony kept watching him.

Steve hated being watched, the roots of that feeling grew during the war. It was irrational then, and even more so now. The strained silence, however, was broken by Tony himself.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" he asked.

"How about personal space?" Steve sighed. Tony was apparently one of those people you had to tell everything directly.

"What about it?" Tony said back, confused.

"It exists," said Steve. He put a plate on the table, and Tony flinched, like Steve was offering him sulfuric acid instead of oatmeal. "And you know it better than I do."

Tony raised his eyebrows, not saying anything else. For some reason, Steve felt like an old boring man, the kind Solomon was accusing him of being.

"You don't like people touching you," he clarified.

"I also don't like oatmeal. And smelling food in the morning. I don't like small animals, the board of directors and the French who pretend not to understand English."

Apparently, Tony also was, Steve continued the thought, one of those people that had to hear a direct question a couple of times to finally answer it.

"I knew people who didn't like being touched," said Steve. "They punched you in the face, not flinched away." He raised his eyes from his plate. "So, what's the problem?"

"That a problem?" Tony gave him an awkward smirk. "Or did you want to..." He paused, suddenly, tapping his lips with a finger. "Never mind that. I'm getting carried away. What exactly do you want to hear, Steve?"

That seemed like a weird thing to say, to Steve. 

He wasn't used to eating in silence; there were always plates ringing all around, the radio, soldiers talking. Since Ben left, Steve was getting progressively used to it, but it still bothered him, and here, at five o'clock in the morning, in somebody else's house the only source of noise was sitting across from him not saying a thing and waiting for Steve to break the silence. 

"I want to hear the truth," Steve said, finally, putting away his plate. "You said there should be no secrets between us."

"I should stop talking to people when I'm tired," said Tony in a lost voice. "Who knows what else I'll manage to say." He drummed his fingers on the table. "The truth is that's how I got raised. ‘Don't touch anything, Tony, be careful with people, Tony, they're so fragile’."

Tony wasn't tense, his tone of voice was even, as he spoke, but Steve still felt something fake about his behavior. As if Tony was really trying to behave like everything was fine when it really wasn't.

"The truth is, Steve, it's an old habit, that I'll probably never get rid of completely."

That was all Steve needed to hear. Tony stood up, made a few steps around the kitchen, as if looking for something. He seemed just as much a guest here as Steve. Finally spotting a kettle, Tony put it on the stove to heat and took out coffee.

"I'll be watching myself," said Steve.

"And encourage my psychosis?" Tony hummed. "Wait with the planning, this wasn't all of it."

He poured the boiling water into his cup, not at all bothered that a few drops landed on his hand.

"I've two armors," said Tony, matter-of-factly, "the first one you saw, and the second is my whole body. Well, not the whole body, but it covers all of it. It's a bio-armor, a bacterial coating. My dad's best invention, all that. So. I was a remarkable child in all aspects, the only downside was that all the crap floating in the air made my skin hurt. So, Howard poured that shit all over me to stop me from screaming. For ten years, it protected me and destroyed everything alive that had the misfortune to get in my hands. That poor kitten, our neighbor still doesn't know... Joking."

He leaned on the table and sighed.

"Howard trained me not to ever touch anything or anyone. Then, of course, he fixed some things, I tinkered with it, too, so nobody's getting hurt anymore, if they touch me. But the habit's still there."

Steve remembered for some reason how he touched Tony's hand after their fight with Hulk and felt like something burned his fingers – maybe that was the armor in action. The picture in his mind of a young Tony avoiding contact with anyone was too real to just brush away.

"I'm sorry," Steve said.

"Are you trying to be friendly? Stop it," Tony snorted, watching Steve put aside his spoon. "That is worse than a glowing thing in your chest, right though? You haven't even seen all my childhood pictures – before Howard figured out how to make it see-through I was all blue like a freaking andorian."

"Who?"

Steve felt like he definitely got lost somewhere in that conversation.

"Didn't they show you Star Trek?"

"No."

"Star Wars?"

"No."

"Back to the Future?"

"No."

"Jesus, Grimm failed your adaptation spectacularly."

"I watched Lion King with Reed," Steve tried to excuse Ben, but Tony just shook his head, absent-mindedly stirring the coffee.

"That's because Lion King hypnotizes Reed. It's the only way to get him out of the lab, and everybody knows this, other than Reed himself."

They fell silent for a moment. Steve didn't know how to object, especially considering Tony was right.

Steve laughed, all of a sudden, and Tony's eyes widened, making him look absolutely ridiculous. That was a first for Steve – he saw Tony serious, laughing, tired, half-asleep, wounded, sarcastic... One person with so many sides to him, like a whole small world.

"I could've ended up anywhere," Steve breathed out through his teeth, "meet all kinds of people that don't test their experimental substances on themselves, don't fly around in the armor, don't... turn into hulks. And I ended up here."

The mask of confusion finally lifted off Tony's face. He raised his cup.

"Let's drink to that."

It was half past five. The sun had already risen, flooding the kitchen with yellow and green light, painting shadows from the arch leading to the corridor.

"Howard said," Tony remarked in a thoughtful voice, "that there's nothing bad in average, if you do understand you're average."

"There are no average people," Steve disagreed. "Every person is special."

"Something tells me you also love puppies and orphans. Do you love puppies and orphans, Steve?"

Steve had nothing against puppies and orphans, but it was an obvious trick question.

"Not for breakfast," he gave an evasive answer, and Tony laughed.

"I'll remember that," he looked down at his tablet and scrolled through something. "My internal clock says it's evening, but the day's just started. I don't like working during daylight. I think sun is better used as a source of energy, not a source of light."

Steve loved sun. He loved getting up early, going for a run, watching the sun rise, but he was ready to admit it wasn't the most popular opinion to have.

"What are you suggesting?"

"To properly get you acquainted with out world," Tony hummed, "Jarvis says you liked the library, right?" Steve nodded. "And you haven't even seen my movie collection yet."

Steve had been to a modern cinema before, although he never got to see 3D – Ben didn't have time, and Steve wasn't passionate enough about cinematography to go by himself. Either way, he didn't think he was missing much. 

Tony wanted to prove him wrong. The screen took up the whole wall. Tony pressed some buttons, shoved special glasses at Steve and fell on the sofa next to him.

After a few hours of explosions, intergalactic wars and laser swords (Steve belatedly understood a few jokes he heard before) his head started hurting, and the glasses uncomfortably rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was going to ask how to turn it off, but when he turned to Tony, he discovered him sleeping. His internal clock was probably insisting it's nighttime, and loud noises from the dynamics were quieter than nature's call. 

Steve managed to turn off the system by pressing some buttons on the remote control and stood up. He was determined not to think about the number of times Tony fell asleep next to him and what it could all mean. 

Jarvis met him at the door. He smiled warmly at the sight of Tony and closed the door. 

"Are you hungry, sir?" he asked.

"No, thanks." Steve made a step forward and then paused. "Could you tell me if there's something like a gym here?"

"Want to stretch your legs? The gym is underground. I can show you the way. Or, if you want, we can call for Mister Hogan. Master will be asleep for a couple of hours. He'll find you later."

The workshop was also underground, and in the workshop there was the armor. Steve almost couldn't hear its call – either Tony fixed it somehow or just kept it turned off – but the thought still made Steve shiver. He excused himself to Jarvis and disappeared into his room instead.

***

Steve expected to Tony to go for the reactor as soon as he crossed the threshold of his house, but the man seemed in no hurry. He didn't do anything for a few more days: the next morning after the movies Tony was nowhere to be seen, and Steve used the time to explore the ground surrounding the mansion. The building looked monstrous, to Steve, too old-fashioned. It would seem gigantic even to a whole family, let alone just two or three people. Most of the rooms weren't even open, the right wing was deserted. Steve felt a bit like a character in a horror movie.

He threw back his head – the ceilings were way too high – and his gaze fell on a portrait of a man who looked very similar to Tony, only his face seemed more rough, sharp, his gaze commanding, like Tony's never really was. That was most likely Howard Stark. Steve had read he died in a car accident about ten years ago. The man on the portrait was around forty, his hair already grey at the edges. The painter was clearly a master – Steve tore his eyes away with difficulty and left the grim corridor.

The explosion caught him on the stairs. He suppressed the panic urge to fall on his stomach and cover his head and almost flinched when he saw Jarvis. The man was quickly climbing up the stairs, clutching a vase to his chest.

"Good morning, Steven," greeted him Jarvis.

"Need some help?" Steve asked, confused. Jarvis was completely unperturbed – either the explosion was planned, or they happened often enough that the old butler just stopped paying attention.

"Thank you, but no," Jarvis's face grew softer. "I'm trying to save some valuables from perish."

Steve looked down. A red-haired woman stood next to the staircase. Happy with a suitcase in his hands hovered behind her.

"Italian investors want your head on a platter," she announced, pointing her finger accusingly at something. "A little bit more of this and they'll get it."

Steve heard some glass clicking, and then – Tony's voice:

"I went to that charity thing and to the meeting with the board of directors," he said, indignant. "What more do you want?"

"For you to work," the woman answered.

This was probably the mysterious Pepper Tony kept mentioning. For some reason, Steve expected her to look more intimidating.

"I am working," Tony finally emerged from behind the corner. He was covered in wires from head to toe and had a grey metal glove on his left hand. "And convincing people that killing me is a bad idea is actually your job."

"Why are you crashing the house?"

"That was an accident." Tony looked at the staircase and waved his hand. "Hey, Steve, did you see? She's alive!"

Steve didn't understand, whom he was talking about – Pepper or the glove, but all the eyes were immediately on him, and he awkwardly stepped aside, trying to hide in the shadows.

"Pepper, this is Steve, he lives this us. Steve, this is Pepper, I told you about her, she's just back from Milan. I think she hates Milan."

"I don't hate Milan," Pepper objected.

"You only attack me when you come back from Milan."

"I'm not attacking you!"

"I haven't seen you in a week, and the first words out of your mouth are about how irresponsible, egotistical and... sorry, I don't remember what was next, genius or idiot?"

Pepper rolled her eyes.

Judging by Happy's unperturbed face and Jarvis calmly passing by – without the vase this time – these rows happened quite often. Then again, Pepper and Tony didn't look like they were really mad at each other – Tony was smiling slightly, and Pepper looked like she was only trying to seem angry. It was very much resembling of a family fight, and Steve suddenly felt awkward, like he was peeping through a door. His own family gatherings ended at fifteen, when mom's health got worse.

Steve noticed people calling him only when Tony patted his shoulder. Steve flinched and looked at him, feeling lost.

"Where's your head?" asked Tony. "Will you keep Pep company at dinner? I'm busy, and while I wash it all off – hate being this dirty – Pepper will already find herself another important trip and disappear. Slow her down for me!"

"Pepper is actually here," she said. "And she's going to take a shower now." Happy went up the stairs, following a barely there gesture she made. "Decide for yourself, who's keeping me company."

As Pepper went by, Steve caught a subtle, unassuming smell of her perfume.

"She's a miracle," said Tony. "Especially when she's not angry and the business is going as it should. You'll become her favorite fast, too." He hummed. "Maybe, your evil plan is to take my place? You're already Iron Man, and if you charm Pepper, you'll have my company, too, in no time. Jarvis's already head over heels for you, and Happy will follow Pepper anywhere. You’re already half-way to having my throne!"

Steve's face must've flinched, because Tony got serious quickly. 

"Sorry. For some reason, I lose control of the conversation really fast with you, and this time I'm even awake."

"I'm not trying to take your place," said Steve, just in case.

"I know. I think it would've never even occurred to you." Tony gave him a crooked smile, tried to rub the back of his head and swore, remembering about the glove. "Let's do it this way: decide who with and where you're having lunch, but dinner is with me."

"Promise you won't blow up the house before that."

"This is extortion!" Tony hummed again. "Deal."

Going back to his room, Steve noticed Happy at the door at the end of the corridor. He was leaning on the door with a lost expression on his face. Then, noticing Steve, he cheered up, gave him a thumbs up and nodded at his back. 

Steve remembered it was Saturday, so Pepper probably didn’t need him to keep her company.

***

Tony was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and his back leaning on a chair of a sofa. The TV was working, but with the sound off, and Steve watched the TV presenter that read the news seriously and silently almost for a minute.

This time, the curtains were open for some reason. The window took up a whole wall and showed carefully trimmed grass, a fence and a bright green hill right behind it that was surrounded by a line of tall grey skyscrapers.

Tony threw back his head and saluted Steve with his glass.

"Pizza? Whiskey?" he offered.

"I don't drink," reminded him Steve. He hesitated for a moment and then sat down next to Tony on the floor.

There was a tablet in front of him with a holographic model of the armor. He couldn't really see it well, because of all the light, but Tony was apparently undisturbed by that.

"Why don't you drink?" he asked, absent-mindedly. "I thought it wasn't forbidden during the war."

"It wasn't," Steve agreed, "for a soldier, not for the Iron Man."

Tony hummed.

"Makes sense."

He was in a tank top, and Steve noticed a burn on his shoulder, the form of which resembled a handprint. Judging by what he saw so far, Tony and safety didn't really get along. 

"Look," he noticed, still distracted, enlarging the hologram, "I broke my brain trying to figure out how you controlled this piece of junk in the forties. My armor has a power source, but it doesn't have a control center, so it cannot be connected to your neural system."

"Why don't you just take a look?" Steve asked and flinched, when Tony tapped him on the chest with a stylus.

"That's why," he explained, "I'll need to handcuff you to a chair and you'll keep flinching every time I try to touch you afterwards. God, if only you knew how much I miss blueprints." He stretched, making his neck crack. "But my bots react to your reactor, so mine and the nameless war genius' technology is similar in some way," Tony muttered. "Except for the thing where incompatibility can burn your nerves." He dropped the stylus and reached for the glass. "Which means, if there’s a mistake, you'll probably stay alive but paralyzed. Or turn into a vegetable."

"You spent so much time trying to get me to agree to it, and now you're discouraging me?" Steve asked, confused.

"I'm just talking to myself," explained Tony.

The thought of becoming disabled was scarier than death, in this unfamiliar world, without a way to stand up for himself, without even a way to support himself. That would've been like Steve’s worst nightmares coming to life. Nothing was more horrifying than becoming a useless aimless piece of meat.

"I," Steve hesitated.

"Changed your mind?" suggested Tony. "Don't want to risk it? It's better to reconsider at this point than later."

"Oh for god's sake, shut up," Steve ignored the hurt look Tony gave him. "I'm not changing my mind, but there are two conditions. First, you don't hide anything. If you need access to the reactor to figure things out, just say it."

"And you'll just let me," Tony vaguely waved his hand.

"I will. Even if you have to handcuff me to a chair."

Actually, the thought of getting on an operational table again wasn't at all appealing, but Steve understood what he signed up for when he first agreed to it.

"Alright," Tony put the glass aside and started drawing something on a tablet, just like that, with his hands in the air. As far as Steve understood his gestures, when the light showed the contours of his drawing, it was a schematic picture of the reactor. "What's the second condition?"

"If something goes wrong," Steve said, slowly, "if my neural system burns... don't even think of leaving me like that."

"I'll take care of you, of course," Tony shrugged, matter-of-factly. "To be honest, I don't think medicine will change much in ten years or so, but I'll keep you on life support as long as needed."

"No," Steve's rough voice surprised himself. Tony raised his head, abruptly. "No life support. I'm asking you to kill me."

He thought for a moment that Tony was going to argue and disagree, even his eyes got dark, but he just slowly raised his hand.

"May I?" he asked.

There was no need to explain what he meant. Steve sighed, pulled up his t-shirt showing the reactor. Then he thought for a moment and just took it all the way off, shivering in the cold air.

Tony didn't immediately try to touch it. First, he carefully typed something on the tablet; Steve thought there was some system to his actions, as if he was getting into a familiar workflow. But when Tony finally touched the reactor, Steve still flinched, loudly breathing in, and the man stepped away at once.

"Sorry." Steve rubbed his face with his hand, pushing away the hair. "It's just... no civilian ever... only the doctors during the adaptation."

"That's why I mentioned handcuffs," Tony muttered. "No one, though? In four years?" He gave Steve a disbelieving look. "What about women? You had women in the forties."

"I haven't..." Steve gave an irritated stare in answer to Tony's mocking one. "I haven't taken my shirt off. Not whatever you were thinking."

"I wasn't thinking anything," Tony snorted. "I don't think, at all. Okay, let's give it another go. If it doesn't go well – tell me."

He raised his hand again and slowly, in a flowing move, put his hand on the round border of the reactor, the tips of his fingertips touching Steve's skin. It was exhilarating. Steve lowered his gaze, following Tony's every move: how he pressed the reactor lightly, drew something with his thumb, immediately, without even looking, starting to type something on the tablet. Steve noticed that he moved too close only when he felt the man's breath with his skin.

"Tony?"

He raised his clouded eyes at Steve.

"This is remarkable," he said. "Fantastic. But now I have even more questions. Could we..."

"No," Steve interrupted. Tony raised his eyebrows. 

"Sorry?"

"You're drunk." That was most likely not true. Steve saw plenty of drunken people before, and Tony wasn't behaving like that. Then again, he was prepared to give himself up to a scientist, but not to a bottle of whiskey.

Tony looked at the glass he was drinking from before as if it was his nemesis.

"I was drunk in the morning," he said. "Then I blew up a drawer with glassware with my repulsors."

"Who even drinks in the morning?" Steve asked, without any real urge to hear the answer. He already reached for his t-shirt under Tony's watchful squinting eyes. He looked almost futuristic with the light from the hologram illuminating his face.

"Seriously, Steve," he drawled, "no women? Were you surrounded by blind people? Or lesbians?"

Steve coughed from the shock of hearing something like that.

"I don't think that's a suitable topic of conversation," he remarked.

Tony snorted. He turned off the tablet, and the room was left in dim light of the evening. Steve saw reflection of the TV screen in the window; it was showing some black and white movie. 

"Why not? You had no time for romantic endeavors? Or were you in love with the armor? I don't see nothing bad in that, I, for example..."

"Tony," Steve interrupted again. He felt unnaturally calm for some reason, like all his worries lost their meaning. He was either too tired to feel anxious anymore, or he already reached the limit of excitations he could experience in one day.

"Maybe, you don't like women at all?"

Steve unclenched his fingers and the crumpled fabric of his t-shirt fell down. He looked at Tony, trying to understand if he was joking or not, because joking about these things in the forties wasn't just improper – it was unacceptable. Especially in the army.

He didn't even think about that, actually, neither then nor now.

"I like women," he answered in a cautious tone. "I had a girlfriend, if that's important. We broke up before the war."

"I see," muttered Tony. 

Steve straightened up, looked through the window – the hill was looming like a black mountain now, and the white teeth of the skyscrapers illuminated the night sky. It made it seem like Stark's mansion was infinitely far away from New York.

"You should sleep," said Tony, not even making the effort to stand up. He brought the glass up to his lips again, his eyes not leaving something in the darkness. "And sleep well. Great things are waiting for us."

"Good night, Tony," Steve said, after a brief moment of hesitation.

"Good night, Steve."

***

Steve woke up at five in the morning from a nightmare. He dreamed he was drowning, and the water was getting into an open wound on his chest. 

Silence hung in the room, heavy and absolute. To shake the unpleasant feeling of it, Steve got out of bed, turned on the laptop and automatically loaded the browser. Among a horde of newsletters and spam there was one letter sent from an unfamiliar address, and Steve absent-mindedly clicked the link.

DON'T ANSWER THIS  
shra@gmail.com  
to me

Steve this is Johnny  
we landed yesterday but they keep us on quarantine   
they think. we got exposed to some cosmic rays and will mutate soon  
Ben already started. he's more annoying than normally. I stole nurse's laptop to say we're okay so don't answer this  
we're okay. Reed and Victor have been arguing who's to blame for four hours, I'd be worried if I were Sue

keep your phone turned on, we'll come home soon

ps cosmos is COOL

Steve read the letter a couple of times. Not that it was particularly informative, Johnny's manner of writing wasn't that far off from the way he talked, but after the third attempt, all the leftover anxiety from the nightmare was gone. In hindsight, this was kind of funny.

He quickly got ready, did some exercises (he'd prefer to go for a run, but was afraid of disturbing someone here) and went down to get breakfast. Nobody seemed to be awake yet, and, while he was sitting alone in the kitchen, a similar breakfast he had with Tony came to Steve's mind. It was a lot more fun despite the difficult conversation they had.

He started thinking about women. Actually, nothing was stopping Steve from finding a girlfriend, even at war, among the nurses, for example, and some of the rebels were beautiful, wonderful, reckless women, that did pay attention to Steve. But remembering his breakup with Gail, remembering how hard a relationship could be with someone, for whom his duty to his country would always come first, stopped him from acting upon any of it. His burden put too much responsibility on him. The Iron Man was too important.

"What were you thinking about?"

"My relationship with the armor," said Steve, before remembering himself. He blinked, throwing away the strange numbness, and looked at Tony standing next to him. The man seemed surprised.

"Really? How far did your thoughts go?"

Tony was still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, and his hair was flattened at one side. He looked tired and sleepy.

"What are you doing here?" asked Steve. "No, that's not it. Are you already awake or still awake?"

"Already," Tony sighed and sat across from him. "I seriously considered the responsibility demanded by the task we’re about to accomplish, sobered up and slept. Now I need coffee." He yawned, covering his mouth with his fist. "How do people sleep at night? That's so damn uncomfortable."

"Depends on when you go to bed." Steve hummed. "You might get used to it with time."

Tony looked so genuinely frightened, that Steve couldn't keep away his smile.

Steve kept thinking about his relationship with the armor while making Tony his coffee. He came to conclusion that it would never compare to a relationship with a real person. It was easy to love a thing that did everything you told it to, much harder to love someone who constantly contradicted you. 

Steve finished making the coffee and handed the cup to Tony, who was half-asleep supporting his head with his hand.

"Maybe you should go to bed?" offered Steve, sympathetically.

"No," Tony shook his head. "I've almost done everything, figured out how to update your program. The only thing left is to cut your chest open and see how hard it is to implement my plan in reality. It's nothing, really."

"It'll be alright," said Steve, softly.

Tony put the cup down with a thud and gave him a grim look. The change of mood was so sudden Steve had no time to adjust.

"I don't need you to comfort me, Steve. Nor to cheer me up. There are only two possible outcomes: either I do this right and we can knock ourselves out playing with the armor, or I fuck it up and I'll have your death on my conscience." He breathed out, loudly. "I hate fucking up."

"I don't know how it'll go," said Steve in an even tone. "But I know that you don't need to blame yourself prematurely. You haven't even done anything, and you're already looking at me like I'm a ghost."

"True," muttered Tony. "No ghosts here."

Steve already noticed that Tony tended to fluctuate from full disregard to paranoid anxiety in his view of death. Steve remembered him mentioning having his limbs torn off. He didn't pay much attention to it then, figuring Tony was joking again. But his healing factor made him virtually immortal and, Steve figured, the bio armor made everyone else seem fragile. He probably wouldn't have hesitated if the reactor was in his chest, and yet he was prepared to step back the moment Steve agreed to the operation.

"Earth to Captain Rogers," Tony clicked his fingers in front of Steve's face. "Do you hear me?"

Steve blinked.

"About that. Johnny wrote me, he says they're back but they have been put on quarantine."

"The soldiers voluntarily locked themselves up in the same building with Doctor Richards?" Tony hummed. "The world will remember their sacrifice. If death from 'brain overload from too much useless information' wasn't a diagnosis before, it's about to become one."

Tony clearly didn’t believe what he was saying, but Steve laughed anyway, at least, it broke up the tension in the air. There was no reason to stall any longer, though, and Tony, apparently, understood that, too. He stood up.

"We start in one hour," he said, smirking.

"Got it," said Steve. Tony waved his head and disappeared in the corridor.

Steve carefully put all the dishes in the sink and turned on the water. Physical work like that calmed him and made it easier to think. Then again, there wasn't much to think about in this situation. Steve belatedly realized the whole thing would've probably been easier if he and Tony didn't know each other. 

"Steven?" Jarvis asked, appearing at the door. 

"I'm already done," said Steve. He rinsed his hands under water and quickly snuck past Jarvis whose puzzled gaze followed him.

***

Exactly an hour later Steve went down to the workshop and found Tony driving the medical chair’s legs’ attachments into the holes in the cement floor. Right above the chair there were lamps as bright as the ones he remembered seeing in operation rooms. 

Tony had time to change his clothes. He patted the chair's arm.

"Looks like a dentist one, doesn't it?" he drawled, in thought. "Well, are you ready?"

"I was ready the moment I said yes," lied Steve.

The tips of Tony's mouth twitched up, as if he was trying to hide a grin. He clearly didn't believe it, but then again, Steve didn't particularly believe himself.

Tony pulled a table with monitors closer to the chair, kicked the last attachment into place and froze with his hands on a plate with tools. Steve's fingers shuddered as he started unbuttoning his shirt. The moment felt almost too awkward. Tony kept looking at him, but Steve felt like it would be stupid to ask him to turn away. He slowly folded his shirt, threw it on a sofa and, wincing from the cold air of the workshop, climbed onto the chair.

"How will it go?" he asked.

The chair was fairly comfortable, but he couldn't relax because of all the light and monitors surrounding him, the purpose of which Steve couldn’t and didn’t understand.

"How was it the last time?" Tony retorted with his own question. He was slowly pulling half-transparent gloves onto his hands. "How do operations normally go? You fall asleep, and then you wake up with a new shiny plate in your chest."

"Wait," Steve’s voice was commanding, as he interrupted Tony reaching for the wires attached to the monitors. "I was conscious the last time. I want to see everything now, too."

Tony stood half turned away from him, and Steve couldn't see his face, but even his tense back spoke plenty of how uncomfortable he was with the suggestion. He froze with the wires in his hands, then turned around and looked at Steve.

"I'll be controlling your vitals with this," he explained. "Pulse, blood pressure and all the rest will be on the monitors. Got that? Alright."

His tone had a hint of anger in it, but this Steve could deal with. Everyone reacted to stress in a different way: some got worried, some overwork themselves to death or repeated everything constantly, and some – like Tony – got angry. That was better than shaking from it, in Steve's opinion.

"It'll hurt," warned Tony in an emotionless tone of voice, attaching something to Steve's wrist. That made him flinch, and a malicious grin appeared on Tony's face. "Not now. Still don't want to get knocked out and miss it?"

They crossed their gazes. If it didn't suit Tony to be serious, this carelessness twisted his face beyond recognition. He was demonstratively cold, focused and impassive, but Steve still noticed how a corner of his lips kept twitching and how cold were the fingers touching his wrist.

"Okay, I got it." Tony let go of his hand. "No more warnings." He turned to his screens again, pressed something on one of them and an uneven line appeared on it and started moving. "Is there anything you need to tell me before we start?"

Steve heard an unsaid 'that may be the last thing you ever say' and clenched his teeth. He had no one to say goodbye to, nothing to feel sorry for, he already lost everything he ever cared about. This world wouldn't notice his disappearance, like it didn't notice when he first arrived here. Maybe, he should've made a joke to break the tension, but he wasn't particularly good at that.

"Tony," he said, simply. The man sighed, gave a grim look to Steve’s reactor and tightened the straps around his hands.

"This thing can be taken out, right? It has to, I can see how it's attached," Tony circled the metal plate with his finger, got ahold of something and gave a satisfied nod. "Okay. Alright. Let's do this."

He pressed in a few places at once and rolled the plate clockwise. Steve heard something click, and the glowing circle of the reactor moved up. Then he felt deafening emptiness inside, like just after an explosion. Steve heard sounds, but didn't understand them, felt leather straps on his wrists and didn't feel them at the same time. It was hard to breathe.

"Your neural system must be going crazy," Steve heard a distant voice.

And then, he started shouting from the pain twisting his body. He clenched his teeth, and his screams transformed into stifled hissing. Steve barely forced himself to keep his eyes open. Tony jerked his hands away, and then pulled a wire from Steve’s chest. To him, it felt like Tony was pulling his spine with it. 

"That's what I thought," muttered Tony to himself. His face was twisted with a grin. "Could be worse."

"What could be worse?" Steve asked in a dull voice, and Tony flinched, surprised.

"Everything," he said. "For example, it could've dabbled as a bomb, you know, so the enemies couldn't copy the technology if they ever caught you. Also it could've been specific to your world, like working on an element that is impossible here. You know, all that. Or you could've had two hearts."

"Did you have a plan for all of those?"

The pain was receding, moving to the back of his conscience. Steve was used to ignoring pain.

"It's pointless to have a plan for everything when there are too many options." Tony touched the wire with the fingers of his free hand, and Steve flinched. "Sometimes it's better to risk it, especially if you know it'll be worth it."

"Is it? Worth it?"

It was a pointless rhetorical question, but Steve just wanted to hear his own voice. Tony didn't answer. He leaned down and pulled something from under the chair. Upon seeing it, Steve automatically tried to crawl back.

"We talked about this!"

"Do I look like a sadist?"

"Tony!"

"You'll yell at me later."

Steve squirmed back again, but Tony caught his chin, holding him in place, and put a plastic mask over Steve's face. The last thing Steve felt was a cold slippery touch of gloves on his skin and pain – but for some reason only in his wrists.

***

Steve woke up abruptly. He was feeling weird, like he was swimming through dense warm water that hugged his body like a wet blanket. It felt like a start of a nightmare – the one you can escape from only by tearing yourself away from the bed. He tried, but the water was not letting him go, and then Steve finally opened his eyes the bright light of medical lamps immediately assaulted him, making him fall back onto the chair. He tried to turn his head and couldn't, he tried to say something and couldn't open his lips. His body wasn't obeying him.

Tony leaned over him, looking worriedly into his eyes.

"Do you hear me?" His voice seemed muffled, as if coming from behind a glass. "Blink once, if you can."

Steve closed his eyes and opened them again, fighting the urge to stay in the cool pleasant darkness that wasn't burning his retina. 

"Good. Can you feel your body? Blink twice, if you can't."

Steve blinked twice. Tony frowned and disappeared from his view for a moment. Steve had a thought that he was probably done for, but he couldn’t assemble enough strength to really care about that. 

"You were gone for twenty minutes," Tony touched his face, without the glove on this time. Steve felt the touch but distantly, as if it was coming through thousand filters. "If I did everything right, your neural system should be adjusting now. It'll take... it took me ten minutes, but as for you... well, you can blink already. That's something."

Even the anger he felt before seemed distant now. Steve knew he should've been mad at being tricked, but he could feel only exhaustion and the ringing silence in his head. He desperately wanted to sleep, but he kept his eyes open, forcing himself to stay awake by sheer stubbornness.

Tony's face was inscrutable. Either Steve was too ill to decipher his emotions, or Tony was deliberately keeping it hidden. 

"You look awful," the man remarked. "But it'll pass. I would add some sedatives, but you're already angry at me, so I won't risk it." Tony leaned lower. "Sleep."

Steve's hazy mind took it as an order, and he closed his eyes.

***

Next time he came to himself the first thing he felt was pain – in his wrists, in his chest, in his temples and all along his spine. Steve let out a stifled breath and coughed, the sound of his own voice making bright flashes appear before his eyes, as if all his senses were scrambled.

"Down, soldier," said Tony. "I see your sensitivity's coming back. Steve?"

He was going to answer, but coughed again, unable to suppress another spasm. He wanted to put his hand on his chest and almost punched himself in the face; Tony caught his wrist at the last moment.

"Breathe. Slowly. In and out, on the count of four."

Steve obeyed.

"Atta boy," said Tony, in a softer voice. "Feeling better?"

"What did you do to me?" Steve muttered under his breath. He tried to sit, but his legs only twitched convulsively. His whole body wasn't obeying him the way it should've been, like someone pulled all his nerve endings and mixed them up. Someone who was sitting next to him and was still holding Steve's hand. "My legs aren't listening to me."

"Can you move your fingers?" Tony tensed.

Instead of his fingers, his knees twitched, and Steve frowned.

"What did you do?" he asked again.

"I didn't take into account that everything was planned for my healing factor," muttered Tony. "But it worked; you'll feel wobbly for a while, but..."

"Tony," Steve said, tired. "We talked about this."

"Nanobots." Tony let go of his hand and leaned on the side of the chair. "I inserted my nanobots into your reactor. It connects to your neural system, so the bots should've let you contact the armor pretty fast. The 'fast' part didn't really happen, but it works." He looked away and added, "sorry."

Steve tried to relax and leaned back in his chair.

"What now?" he asked, quietly.

"What now?" echoed Tony. "Now you sleep. I'd suggest you stay here, but you'll probably sleep for a long while, so... Try to stand up."

Clutching the chair's back, Steve tried to do just that. His legs gave out under him, but Tony caught him in time, holding his waist, and Steve practically hung onto him. He wasn't really all that short, the impression came from him being thin and slouching all the time. He almost ditched that habit in the army, but he started doing it again having no reason to stand at attention anymore. At the back of his mind, irritation surfaced at letting himself go this way and not making an effort. Now he'll probably have a reason to start training again.

Tony's body was pleasantly warm, and Steve, as if in response to it, started shivering. 

"Does anything hurt?" asked Tony. Steve frowned.

"My wrists." There were bright red marks on them from the leather straps. He didn't know how he managed to irritate his skin so much with such soft material. "My back and my chest." He paused for a moment. "My head's spinning."

"Feeling weak," Tony finished for him. Steve nodded.

"I don't feel the armor," he added, for some reason.

"And you won't, probably for a day or two, depending on a number of factors," answered Tony. "Nanobots need time. Then again, they can restore themselves and replicate in case of a part of population... disappearing. They're more bio-nanobots, than machines, really." He hummed. "Sometime I'll teach them to think."

They were slowly moving towards the exit, Steve carefully measuring each of his steps not to fall. Tony stepped away from him a bit, but was still holding his elbow.

"There's another bonus, too. Maybe, these babies can speed up your regeneration. Of course, you won't be able to grow a torn off limb, but scratches will start healing twice as fast. And I can carry you."

Steve, surprised, almost lost his footing.

"At least to the elevator," continued Tony, unperturbed.

"There's an elevator here?"

"It was here since Howard's time. Then I started using it to get heavy parts to the roof. A couple of years ago." Tony's voice got thoughtful. "Not much of an adventure to get stuck in an elevator in a mansion with three floors, right?"

"I guess," agreed Steve. He made another step, almost stumbled again and pushed his hand through his hair in an anxious gesture. "This'll take hours. Come here."

When Tony came close enough, Steve put his hands around his neck and transferred half his weight on Tony, which made things quite easier. The army, among other things, taught Steve to take help when his own condition didn't allow him to successfully finish the mission. Even if the mission was just getting to his own bed.

"Well, that's something, at least," muttered Tony.

To his apparent regret, they didn't get stuck in the elevator. It was creaking, and they had to really pull the door to get it open, but it was still working. Steve didn’t notice them going through the corridor, but he did remember noticing one of the rooms opening with a corner of his eye and Pepper looking out. She watched them for a while and then disappeared again.

The room was filled with warm light. Steve realized, with a weird feeling, that not much time passed since his waking up this morning, even though to him it seemed like eternity ago. 

He fell onto the bed, like someone cut his legs off, and accidentally pulled Tony with him. Steve's face was pressed into the blanket and it was hard to breathe. Something inside him demanded he prepare the bed, at least take the shoes off (his shirt was still in the workshop) and lie down properly.

"If you don't move your arm," said Tony, in a weirdly amused voice, "I'll take this as an invitation."

Steve tried to move his arm, but only managed to displace it from Tony's neck to his shoulder blades. He laughed, quietly, and felt Tony raising himself on his elbows and throwing off Steve's arm.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

Steve shook his head, barely suppressed another coughing fit that his laughter evolved into and turned around with some difficulty. It was probably just a reaction to stress, but he felt light in an almost frightening way. The world still seemed like Steve was seeing it through dirty glass, his wrists hurt and his chest felt tense, but that was it. He was alive, he didn't become disabled and most likely in a couple of days he could put on the armor again and be Iron Man.

Steve closed his eyes and smiled.

"I need to thank you."

"For immobilizing you or...?"

"You know for what," Steve interrupted. "Really, Tony. If you really want me to be angry at you for knocking me out, I will be. But I'd rather not."

He raised his hand and put it into the light, to see if he could notice anything different, but everything seemed the same, no tiny robots, nothing. Nothing monstrous. Tony hummed.

"I need to get up," he said, almost voicing Steve's thought. "Let you sleep."

"But you don't want to move."

"Exactly."

He probably should've asked Tony to leave. He had to, really, because this was all a bit improper... 

Then again, Steve thought, absent-mindedly, the man lying next to him now just a few hours ago had his hands up to his elbows in Steve's chest. 

Steve closed his eyes. Behind closed eyelids, the darkness was red at the corners, illuminated by the sunlight. It wasn't bothering Steve. Hardly anything could bother him at the moment.

He heard the bed creak and opened his eyes – Tony was slowly pulling the curtains close. For a moment, Steve saw his silhouette freeze on the dark red background, as if the man was hesitating, but Steve's eyes were already closing again. He was falling asleep. Still, he remembered feeling the matrass buckle under the weight of another's body.

***

When Steve woke up, Tony was already gone. He'd chalk it up to his delirious imagination, but the blanket next to him was crumpled – if Tony was sleeping next to him, he apparently didn't feel like getting under it. 

Steve moved, with caution, but his body responded eagerly; he twitched his fingers, stretched till something in his back snapped. The pain was gone, only his muscles felt stiff, as if he spent too much time in one position. Steve stood up, tried to bend down and almost fell: his head was still spinning a bit. He stood still for a few minutes, and then strode to the shower, kicking off his shoes as he went.

Steve stopped in the half-dark bathroom, looking at the smooth blue glow of his reactor that replaced the red. He didn't expect the color to change. The web of scars around it stayed the same, though, and Steve’s body didn’t start glowing or sparkling, he didn't grow any new limbs, didn't start getting seizures that would have him writhing on the floor. Only the familiar glow illuminating his features was different, so now Steve resembled a ghost.

The shower went fine, nothing else weird happened, as did getting dressed and coming down the stairs. 

Steve almost crushed into Tony standing in the darkness of the corridor – if not for the man's reaction, he would've at least stumbled. 

"Hey, hey, easy," said Tony with a grin, holding him by the shoulders. "Light." Lamps above Steve's head turned on. Steve squinted and was going to close his eyes, but Tony stopped him, "no, look at me."

"Were you standing here the whole time?" asked Steve, confused. He moved back a bit, and Tony obediently let him go. 

"No, I came when the system told me you're awake. Raise your hand. Now left. Does anything hurt?"

Steve frowned.

"No. System?"

"Security. Or did you think I'd leave you by yourself for sixteen hours?" Tony snorted. "Wanna eat?"

Sixteen hours? That's how long he was asleep?

"I'll throw up if I try to eat anything," Steve admitted, with regret.

"Well, you still need sugar," said Tony. "Let's go."

The coffee Tony made was black and so sweet it resembled syrup more than anything else. Steve was pretty sure that was he to put a spoon in it, it'd stay standing.

Tony kept watching Steve like he was his favorite toy and not a person. Steve felt uncomfortable under his unrelenting gaze, but, to his surprise, not as uncomfortable as he expected himself to be. 

"Did you try to cut yourself already?" asked Tony. "All your motor functions seem to be in order. I think, the adjustment is finished."

"That’s why you gave me such a small spoon?"

Tony raised his eyebrow.

"And the least comfortable cup I could find."

"Smart," Steve closed his eyes and finished his coffee in two swallows, treating it like medicine, the only difference being it left a sticky sweet taste in his mouth instead of sour. "Then, can we go check the armor?”

"Are you in a hurry?" Tony asked.

"As if you aren't," said Steve. "I want to go to the armor."

Tony seemed to be thinking about it. He bit his finger, looked away, and brought his shoulders together. He obviously wanted to go the workshop as well and check that everything was working, but something, some distant feeling of responsibility, was stopping him. 

Steve wondered when he got so good at reading Tony's moods.

"Let's go," he repeated. "What's gonna happen?"

Steve finally felt the armor calling, again, and desperately wanted to connect to it. The call was different than before, though, the pressure of it was gone, so Steve was sure everything was going to be fine. He wanted to get encased in metal again, alone with the armor, the rest of the world drowned out, and to fly. God, he missed it.

The chair was still in the corner of the lab. Apparently, Tony didn't have the time to disassemble it, only to put it aside. The lamps and the monitors were all there as well, lost among the rest of the equipment. Steve noticed them only because he was looking.

After that operation when they put the reactor in his chest, for a long time, Steve couldn't get closer to any medical room – doctors' masks, all the tools they used, everything caused such a disgust in him, like his subconscious was trying to avoid unpleasant memories.

"I didn't have time to finish your armor," said Tony, pausing next to him. "If not your darling friend Hulk, I'd have more time, but I was busy repairing my own."

"Hulk was trying to protect me," protested Steve.

"So was I," Tony threw a side-glance at him and nodded at a small metal case. "Try mine. I think, the reactor shouldn't cause any problems, the armor uses it as a repulsor weapon and a source of energy."

"You sure?" asked Steve.

"No, turn around and get out of here," Tony retorted, annoyed. "Of course, I'm sure. Go ahead. Try... well, try whatever you used to control it before."

Before, Steve would have to climb into a giant vaguely human-shaped metal box, strap himself in, put the helmet on, and only then he could start. Now, though, everything would be different.

He held his breath and connected with it. The armor answered immediately, and Steve was filled with almost child-like happiness, because it felt right. The parts of it rose in the air, following his mental command, and the armor started building itself around his body, his shirt and pants got crumpled in the process, but Steve didn't care. He felt the familiar cold of the metal, got encased in a familiar, almost comforting darkness. Steve was finally home.

"How are you feeling?" asked Tony, his amusement evident in his voice. "Judging by your face before the helmet closed, you're in heaven."

"You've no idea," said Steve. "Or, actually, I guess you do."

The armor was almost constantly moving, changing, fitting, following Steve's half-conscious demands. He didn't even have to think about it, it was natural, like breathing.

"I do. I really hope I don't look this stupidly happy."

Steve looked at Tony and scanned him with his sensors. He looked calm, but the armor indicated his pulse was elevated. The machine was surprisingly easy to control, probably because it was connected to his neural system, but the moment Steve thought of taking a step, the armor was already moving. Like it was a continuation of his body, and not a huge metal contraption.

Tony grinned.

"Well? You're going to walk around? You can try flying – the ceiling is thirteen feet high."

"Thirteen point two," Steve specified. Tony grinned even wider.

"Start with power at 1 percent. Did your armor have stabilizers? Stupid question, of course, it did, otherwise it just wouldn't fly."

Tony made a couple of steps away. In the armor, Steve was slightly taller than him, but not by much. Still, looking down at Tony instead of up was unusual.

"Put your hands parallel to the ground," Tony demonstrated, and Steve repeated after him. "No more than one percent, or you'll make another hole in the ceiling."

It was a bit like jumping, only Steve didn't land, staying in the air with his hands awkwardly moving around. The stabilizers were buzzing, making his skin feel weird, like tiny insects were crawling all over it. Then again, Steve wasn't all that sure the stabilizers were at fault – he could've been feeling nanobots.

The sensors were still making their readings – temperature, humidity, pressure, living creatures on the perimeter. Tony's pulse went even faster, but Steve wasn't surprised – he himself was missing every other breath from all the excitement.

"And higher," said Tony, smirking.

Steve flinched, surprised, the power of the repulsors grew without his command, and he raised a few feet in the air. At his indignant 'hey!' Tony just laughed.

"Calm down, I got you," he said. "So, how is it? Nothing like the forties, right? Tomorrow, we can shoot Frisbees from the roof. Or fly around the suburbs, you've no idea how much the elderly like UFOs."

"You're scaring the elderly with the armor?" Steve asked, indignant. The strange feeling in his skin increased, making it harder to ignore.

"Can you imagine how boring their lives are?" Tony put his hands in his pockets and swayed on his heels. "I'm like an evening show for them. They love me."

"Are you going to tell me you also collect newspaper clips where they mistook you for an alien?" asked Steve. He tried to land gently, but miscalculated something and dropped heavily, hitting the ground with his metal boots.

"No, but it's a good idea," Tony hummed.

Steve raised his hand, first at shoulder level, then higher, pressed the metal fingers into a fist and then quickly opened them. All the movements were astoundingly easy. His old armor was clumsy; the bulky suit didn't let him move with grace and dexterity. Steve, who was used to beating his street fight opponents by being faster and more agile, had to completely reconsider the way he fought, trading speed for direct attacks. With the armor like Tony's, though, he could move and dodge, not taking hits from rockets anymore.

Steve breathed out and opened the helmet. His itching skin was starting to hurt.

"Had enough of flying? I could've bet you'd spend half a day under the ceiling. That's what I did." Tony turned his head and adjusted the collar, as if he was hot. "At least, if you ignore the moments I was smashing into walls and breaking furniture. The first model was far from perfect."

"And you were fourteen?"

"I was a genius," answered Tony, simply. He frowned, seeing Steve starting to take off the armor. It was assembling in the air in front of him, like it did before when Tony wore it. "Is something wrong? You're looking way too serious."

Something was definitely wrong. His skin was burning, like he spent too much time under the sun, but it wasn't the normal feeling of pain. That, Steve was used to, with the discomfort of the reactor and all the fights he was in. This, like somebody was dragging sandpaper along his skin, was almost frightening. But he could probably learn to ignore that as well.

"Steve?" Tony asked, worry coming up in his voice.

"It's fine, just, my skin..." Steve smiled a crooked smile and shrugged. "It hurts," he finished, awkwardly. Tony frowned.

"Your skin? That's weird."

"A side effect?" suggested Steve, but Tony shook his head.

"Shouldn't be. If your body started rejecting nanobots, you'd be already on life support. Does anything else hurt?"

"Nothing," said Steve, after a short pause. "I'm feeling great, otherwise."

"Endorphins," Tony hummed. "I'm surprised at how collected you are, Steve. I was smiling like an idiot for two days after I tested the bots the first time."

Steve felt almost guilty, but the habit to control his emotions was firmly installed in him since the army. He was actually almost charmed by the openness of people in this time, at first, and the openness of Tony especially – all his emotions were like a kaleidoscope, changing lightning fast, making it hard to keep track of them. That made it harder to read him, but then again, Steve generally wasn't that great at understanding people. The military habit of categorizing everybody into allies and enemies was hard to shake off.

He did like it, though. Almost as much as he liked watching Tony think.

"Well, we can always drag you to Pym as a last resort," said Tony. "He'll bite my head off, but he'd be excited, I think. Janet, though, will just bite my head off. But if my plan worked, and my plans always work, it'll be alright. Try to pack the armor into a case."

Steve gave the metal suit hovering in the air a long look.

"I won't help you," finished Tony, purposefully putting his hands behind his back. The gesture was pointless, Steve knew perfectly well Tony could control the armor with just a thought; even the clicking fingers he used to do was only out of habit.

Steve noticed his pulse throbbing under his jaw, faster than was normal. The beats were regular and too strong, in the way they were never before. Steve pressed his fingers to it reflexively, as if trying to slow down the beating from the outside.

"It'll take you a while, the first time," said Tony, softly. The parts of the armor dislocated and started slowly coming into places. Steve's head was swimming, like somebody took his hand and was making him slide blindly on the ice. It resembled a bit doing jigsaw puzzles that Steve learned about from Tony, but in reverse: details only found their places when Steve stopped thinking of where to put them. The armor was smarter than it seemed, or maybe, Tony did find a way to make it intelligent after all. Steve read something about people researching that. 

"You're learning fast," muttered Tony. "Or is it because you were already a pilot?"

Steve shook his head and tapped Tony on the arm above his elbow, still looking at the armor. The moment he did that, he felt a similar touch on his own arm, in the same place, and he turned around, surprised.

Tony looked frightened. He froze in an awkward pose, made a step back, but Steve, following an unformed yet thought, grabbed his wrist. 

It wasn't his pulse beating under his jaw, it wasn't his skin burning, but it was his surprise reflected on Tony's face, like in a funhouse mirror. Tony tried to move away again, Steve grabbed him harder and winced, feeling pain that wasn't his.

He wasn't overwhelmed, despite not expecting anything like it. It was more like a slow descent, like standing in a well being slowly filled with hot water.

"I'm an idiot," whispered Tony, not letting go of Steve's gaze. "I'm a fucking idiot."

He wasn't trying to break free anymore. The water was still coming in, to Steve's chest, to Steve's neck, till it felt like he couldn't breathe. He couldn't understand where he ended and another person began, and for some reason, couldn't find strength neither to break of his gaze, nor to stop touching.

Tony was waiting, quiet, while Steve was drowning in another's feelings. He felt as if he became the armor – as if, were Tony to raise his arm, he would have to follow. It wasn't from the pain, that was just what he focused on, but there was something else, half-strangled and strange, that was becoming clearer by the second.

Steve moved away, made a few steps and hit his hip on a table, making Tony hiss from the pain of it. They both froze again, looking at each other in fear, but this time Steve couldn't bear it – the adrenalin was still high, his pulse was beating twice as fast as normal, the excitement from getting to use the armor still didn't leave him. He covered his face with his hands and laughed.

"This is madness," he said, "the armor must've driven me mad ages ago, and I'm lying in a hospital. All of this – the future, antmen, hulks, you – is just my feverish fantasy."

"Don't tell me the idea only occurred to you now," answered Tony, perplexed. He looked terrified of making a single step, resembling a cat that went outside for the first time.

"I'm dreaming," muttered Steve.

Instead of saying anything, Tony pinched his own shoulder, and Steve winced from the feeling. He'd never felt another person so close, literally in his own skin. That seemed far more intimate than everything Gail ever let him do.

Steve tried not to think. He leaned on the table and worked on getting his breathing under control.

"You've an explanation," he said, without a doubt.

"Yeah, I..." Tony shook his head, breaking through the stupor, and quickly shortened the distance between them. His eyes were burning with unnatural delight and shock. "Fuck, this must be on hormone level, right? But who's copying who? I couldn't even imagine... Pym will go green with jealousy."

He kept talking, but Steve got distracted, watching his lips move, the flutter of his eyelashes, his nervously shifting eyes, as if he was looking for something. Steve suddenly thought that Tony didn't quite realize what happened – too excited about scientific implications of it – and to remind him, Steve put both hands on his chest. Tony stopped talking and lowered his gaze.

"I didn't think..." he paused; the expression on his face became distant. "I told you bots are smart, almost like a living organism, remember? I never completely disconnect from the armor, I don't need to."

Steve kept watching his face, mesmerized. He could predict his every move, from complex gestures to slight twitching of the muscles of his face. Even his own ridiculous pose – still with his hands on Tony's chest – didn't bother him.

"I've a theory," Tony continued, looking him in the eyes. His pupils were slightly dilated. "They're learning. They found a stable system and interfaced with it. God, this is crazy, but I think our neural systems are connected."

He shuddered, as if only now coming to his senses, and stepped aside – Steve's hands, without the support, hovered for a moment in the air.

"I'm sorry," said Tony. "I think I can fix this. Well, theoretically, at least, in reality I've no idea what to do, but I'll think of something, I'm smart."

"Why?" Steve asked in a hoarse voice. Tony raised his eyebrows.

"You're hurting," he said, "and that's because of me. And you'll be hurting if I pour liquid metal on my foot, and something tells me, Steve, that things that are normal for me could be deadly for you."

"I can deal with pain," objected Steve.

"It's not only about..."

"...pain," Steve finished for him, automatically, and almost bit his tongue. Tony's face went completely still, and Steve felt like he lost the rest of the adrenalin still coursing through his body. Silence, heavy and unpleasant, hung in the air, but Tony quickly got ahold of himself.

"Alright, try to disconnect," he muttered, quickly going towards the monitors. "I still hope the link is through the armor, otherwise we'll definitely have to drag Pym here, and I hate letting other scientists into my workshop." He was speaking quickly and not quite clearly, like he always did when he was nervous.

Steve took a deep breath, pushed aside the strange hot feeling accompanying the discomfort in his skin and closed his eyes. Disconnecting from the armor felt like being hit on his nerves, like the armor was resisting, not willing to lose their connection, too. Then, Steve was hit by the silence.

It felt like Steve instantly lost half his feelings and almost stumbled from the surprise of it. Tony was looking at him from a couple of feet away, and for a moment Steve thought his face showed regret and fear.

They went their separate ways, after hardly exchanging a few words. Tony's voice sounded unsure and lost, Tony himself looked like somebody just hit him over the head. As for Steve, he was completely exhausted, strangely paralyzed and deafened. He read about sensory deprivation some time ago, and he thought that was what it probably felt like.

Already in his room, mindlessly typing on the keyboard of his laptop, Steve tried to make sense of what happened, but without any success, stumbling upon some sort of mental block from his own shock. All of it – the emotions, the heady mix of feelings and sensations – was just too much. There was some tune playing from the laptop's speakers, the soft melody of it drowning out the steady flow of his thoughts and soothing him. Steve didn't even register falling asleep.

***

It turned out to be surprisingly easy to avoid someone living in the same house as you. Steve and Tony had sufficiently different schedules – Steve woke up around the time Tony usually went to bed. It's like they separated the house into sections: the whole basement was Tony's, the second floor was Steve’s, and they went to the first floor at different times.

"That is so childish," said Pepper, meeting Steve in the corridor.

"Sorry?"

"You and Tony are behaving like children," she sighed, tired. "Do not think that nobody noticed your disagreement. Jarvis's counting losses from Tony's destructive experiments, and I am counting the circles you go in around the mansion. The numbers are astounding."

"Miss Potts..."

"Pepper."

"With all due respect," Steve continued, stubborn, "this is none of your business."

Pepper's gaze went cold; she pressed her fingers together and straightened.

"If it's Tony's business, it's my business." She sighed, again. "Look, he's a difficult person to get along with, he can be rough and rude, unbearable sometimes."

Steve wanted to object, but found himself nodding instead.

"When he shuts himself down in the workshop like that," she said, her voice almost emotionless, "it means something's bothering him. That's the way he deals with things going wrong."

She her took her vibrating phone out of pocket and frowned at the number on the screen.

"And when people spend the whole day exercising, that usually means there’s some tension they’re trying to shake off," she added, bringing the phone to her ear. "Yes? You again? I already told you Tony Stark doesn't need a therapist consultation. I don't care about your accomplishments, Doctor Faustus. No, I'm not going to meet with you, and if you keep calling..."

The name sounded familiar, but Steve didn't like listening in to people's conversations, so he left Pepper to her work.

***

A few days later, Steve noticed that he was turning into a ghost of Stark's mansion, that he was going crazy from having nothing to do, and that missing Tony almost physically hurt. Steve was so used to his constant presence, to all the talking and watching movies, all the little things that made up their friendship, that he almost inadvertently started going places he could bump into Tony, spending too much time in the kitchen, standing for way too long in corridors and the drawing room. Tony, however, stopped leaving the workshop, and Steve didn't dare go there directly.

In the end, Steve did go there, but the door was closed, and he didn't have the code. Steve couldn't see the light behind the darkened glass – neither the blue glow of the monitors, nor the white and yellow light of the overhead lamps, but Steve was still pretty sure Tony was there.

In the evening, he left the mansion and walked to the art shop. It was a long walk, but Steve was in no hurry. 

He spotted Solomon's huge figure from the distance – the man was doing something with the keys. His black dog was lying on the ground next to him and didn't even raise its head when Steve approached.

"Oh," said Solomon, sounding not at all surprised. He let go of the keys, leaving them in the lock, and took out a cigarette from his shirt's pocket. "You look awful."

In the light of the match Solomon brought to the tip of his cigarette, Steve glanced at his reflection in the dirty glass of the shop's door. He didn't look like a soldier at all, especially with his hair all grown out. He looked like a teenager.

"You're exactly the same, though," Steve answered, quietly. Solomon smirked, flashing his bright white teeth and threw the match to the ground.

"Decided to come back?"

Steve wanted to say yes, but couldn't bring himself to do it, for some reason.

"Whatever you're doing," continued Solomon, unperturbed, "the shit's tiring you out."

"Yeah," Steve didn't argue.

"Is it worth it?"

Solomon was way too curious. Steve liked it in people.

"It is," he said, after a moment's hesitation. Solomon squinted – either from the thick sweet smoke or to show that he didn’t believe Steve at all – but didn't ask anything else. "I wanted to buy a thing. But you're already closed, I'll come by tomorrow."

"The doors are always open for you," said Solomon. He pulled the door. "Besides, I broke the lock."

***

It was already dark when Steve got back to the mansion. Jarvis met him at the door with a flower pot under his arm. 

"Steven," he said. "I was starting to fear you weren't coming back."

"I," Steve hesitated, "I went to an art shop."

Jarvis's grey eyebrow twitched, but his expression didn't change.

"You could ask Harold. He would be glad to help you."

It took Steve some time to understand he meant Happy. 

"I wanted to take a walk anyway," he said. "Is Tony home?"

"He left the workshop half an hour ago and went to his room," Jarvis adjusted the flower pot and slowly went towards the kitchen. "I would guess, Steven, you've time to catch him before he locks up."

***

They had to talk, but Tony, apparently, had been great at playing hide and seek with people he lived in the same house with. Steve remembered Howard's stern face and sighed – he probably shouldn’t have been surprised.

They had to talk, but Steve still didn't know how to start that conversation without looking like he was trying to force Tony to do things his way. There was one way, of course, one thought that occurred to him right when this whole thing started, but he dismissed it, expecting everything to dissolve by itself. 

Steve hesitated for a long time, pacing the room, looking out the window. His guts told him this would change everything, but didn't tell him would it be for the worse, or for the better. Either way, he had to risk it, to take the situation into his own hands and do what had to be done. 

Steve took a deep breath and connected to the armor. It answered readily, as it did during the last time he tried that. Steve could control it even from this distance. He remembered Tony telling him the armor found him from a mile away, a few feet weren't a problem at all. But for now, the armor wasn't what Steve was interested in. He listened to his feelings, trying to find Tony. For a moment, he got scared that all these days Tony spent trying to tear down their link. Tony was smart, after all, he could get rid of what was wrong in his opinion, and then this attempt to make him come out and talk was doomed to failure from the start.

But then, as if from far away, Steve could feel pressure growing and his skin starting to itch. He breathed out, in relief. He hardly knew what to do now, though, he didn’t plan that far ahead, and now he could only wait for Tony to notice and make his move.

Next to the itching came a different strange feeling, like a hundred tiny hammers hitting his skin. Steve shuddered and automatically tried to straighten up when he felt something touch his neck and glide down.

Tony was in the shower.

It was too late and stupid to back down, and Steve sat on the bed, twisting his fingers nervously. Another's pulse was throbbing under his jaw, non-existent water drops were sliding down his body. Compared to all that, the pain was an afterthought, almost unnoticeable. Steve could get used to it – Tony had to deal with it all the time.

Steve visibly shuddered, feeling a light touch to his hand: from downside up, from his wrist to his shoulder, then even higher, to his neck. His and at the same time other's fingers touched the back of his head, then moved back to his collarbones and his chest. He told himself with a certain degree of desperation that it was normal, there was nothing weird in Tony touching his body when he washed himself. There was nothing weird... The thought was left unfinished when Tony's hand slid down his stomach and grabbed his cock. Steve' stopped breathing, froze and then quickly disconnected from the armor – too quickly, almost painfully. His head was ringing from the emptiness it left beside, and Steve had to take a few breaths to get his bearings.

Then, a wave of fury overcame his arousal. Tony had to know what was happening. He must've realized the moment Steve connected. It must've been an attempt to provoke him. With every breath Steve took now, the fury got stronger. Not quite understanding what he was doing, he jumped to his feet and rushed from the room.

He caught Tony coming into the corridor. The man stumbled, surprised, and Steve pushed him into the room and slammed the door shut behind them.

Then he froze, shocked by the loud noise the door made. He was breathing heavily and had to apply considerable effort into making his hands stop forming fists. Tony was standing in front of him half-naked, his lips stretched into an unpleasant smirk.

Steve very clearly and very angrily understood he was trying to escape into the workshop again.

"What?" asked Tony, feigning curiosity. "That's a strange reaction for a voyeur who got exactly what he wanted."

Steve clenched his teeth.

"Why did you do that?"

"Why did you do that?" echoed Tony. Drops of water were still sliding down his neck, and Steve shuddered, even though he couldn't feel it anymore.

"I wanted to talk!"

"And that's a great way to start a conversation." The unpleasant smirk disappeared, replaced by irritation. Tony was squinting at him, so tense, that Steve inadvertently tensed up himself. 

"The only way to start a conversation," he hissed, "with a man, who spent his days hiding in the basement."

To Steve's surprise, Tony didn't argue.

"Fair." He shrugged, the movement of his muscles under wet skin making Steve's throat go dry. "You still want to know why I did that? Welcome to the real world."

Steve was going to answer, but Tony didn't let him.

"Because this is exactly what's waiting for us. No personal life. No privacy. Pain is nothing, you can live with it, but what about that personal space you kept lecturing me about?"

"I was at war." Steve's voice went dry and sharp. He was horrifically ashamed of his inappropriate arousal, that he knew – even without the armor – Tony noticed. 

"Like that makes things easier for me."

Steve didn't immediately realize he was talking about the link going both ways, and when he did, the knowledge of his own selfishness burned him. The fact that he could disregard privacy and personal space that he never really had didn't mean Tony had to make a similar sacrifice. He had a life, bright and busy, based on what got published in tabloids, Tony didn't need a burden in the form of a guy from the forties.

Instead of calming him down, his blindness only made Steve angrier, even though he tried desperately to take himself under control.

"We won’t be linked all the time."

"Really?" Tony feigned surprise. "I think we will. You won't be able to resist the temptation of connecting to the armor."

"But if you make me my own, it won't happen, right? Nothing to worry about?"

"Oh." Tony smirked. "You're giving up that fast?"

"I accept your argument about personal space," Steve squinted, looking at him. "I won't interfere with your fun." He was attacking blind, actually, the only woman he saw Tony meeting with during all this time was Pepper. Janet didn't count, she loved Hank too much, the same way waitresses that Tony flirted with didn't, as far as Steve understood, flirting was just another way Tony dealt with the world.

"A lovely display of care. Bravo, Steve. Are we done?"

"No," Steve said, sharply. Tony raised his eyebrows, waiting.

The conversation wasn't going the way Steve wanted to, he wanted to explain himself, not to argue, but he didn't seem to be able to do anything about it. Irritation and arousal were so mixed up in him that he just couldn't calm down and get a grip. Watching half-naked and equally angry Tony didn't help with it either. He tried to breathe and wanted to close his eyes, but something stopped him from breaking eye-contact.

"I'm not afraid of being linked with you," he said, slowly.

Tony's eyes seemed to flash, and a strange shadow went over his face. The next second he was smirking again.

"You're not?" he asked. "How about this?"

He made a quick step forward, making Steve stumble back and hit his back on the door, and pressed his lips to Steve's. 

At first, Steve didn't answer, he stood there, clenching his teeth, and had a distant thought that this wasn't what he meant about being connected, only something inside his mind didn't agree to that. 

Tony stepped back, still smirking, the corner of his lip twitching anxiously.

"That's what I thought," he said, his voice clearly disappointed in addition to still being angry. 

Steve didn't let him move away, however, taking him by the back of his head and pushing closer. He was acting on a reflex; the kiss resembled the quarrel they just had, as rough and almost cruel. His lips clashed, the pose was uncomfortable, but at some point, all of it stopped mattering: Tony moved closer, and Steve almost relaxed. Too much time passed since he kissed somebody, and soft Gail's lips or tender and pliable ones of French prostitutes had nothing in common with dry lips of Tony Stark.

Then the man's hand grasped his hip, Steve broke off the kiss, hitting the back of his head on the door.

"Is this a no?" asked Tony, his voice hoarse.

Steve wanted to answer, but Tony kissed him again, softly touching his lips, the corner of his chin, sliding his lips along the curve of his shoulder. If Steve was capable of any protest before, now fighting Tony, his own arousal, the pleasure he felt from the lips touching his collarbones and neck, seemed completely pointless.

"Bed," he muttered in a broken voice, not even trying to move away.

Tony laughed, quietly and happy, like a person who just solved a whole lot of his problems, and put his hands under Steve's t-shirt.

"Four years, I can't imagine," he said, touching his reactor. "I've a lot to show you."

"I've been at war."

"With men?"

Steve shook his head, and Tony softly pulled him towards the bed.

"Then I still have a lot to show you."

***

Steve's sleep was actually deep and calm, probably for the first time in a few months. He woke up around sunrise, feeling cold, shivered and only then opened his eyes. He turned his head, squinting in confusion at grey morning light, thinking the blanket must've fallen off him during the night when he was tossing and turning. It happened before.

Steve raised himself on his elbows, and his gaze fell upon Tony standing in the bathroom's doorway. He had a cup in his hand, and the damn blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. Unlike completely naked Steve, he was at least partially dressed.

They looked at each other in silence, Tony's gaze considerate and attentive, Steve's irrationally bashful. He wanted to reach for his discarded clothes, but couldn't stop looking at Tony.

Tony put the cup on the table, slowly, and moved towards the bad, still not saying a word. The blanket fell while Tony was on his way, and he climbed confidently on the bad and straddled Steve with no warning.

"There's at least one advantage about this being connected situation," he said, his voice calm. "I can make you orgasm without even touching you."

Steve shuddered, feeling his face undeniably go red. Tony laughed and leaned down, touching his lips to Steve's neck. The anxiety enveloping Steve started receding, and he felt himself relax, slowly. He put his hand on the back of Tony's head, treading his fingers through the man's hair. The sensation was new, all of this was new to him, but – to his own surprise – he wasn't bothered by it.

Steve turned away, when Tony bit the skin on his neck, and grasped his hips.

"However much I want this to continue," said Tony, his breath hot on Steve's neck, "I have to be on some dreadfully important meeting in a few hours."

"Shareholders meeting," said Steve, distracted. "Annual report with the board of directors, profit and loss distribution."

Tony straightened his head, looking at Steve with his eyebrows raised.

"Is there something I missed?"

"I've been talking to Pepper."

Shrugging wasn't easy lying down, and Steve squirmed, trying to raise himself, but Tony softly pushed him down onto bed.

"And now you probably know about this meeting more, than I do," he hummed and rolled aside, leaning his head on his hand. "Maybe, you should go, then?"

Steve sat up now, with his feet on the soft carpet, quickly gathered his clothes and put the pants on.

"I don't understand," he said, looking back at Tony.

"Is this a start of a serious conversation?" Tony looked at Steve, curiously, making him lose his thought for a moment.

"Yes... No." He shook his head. "You're not interested in the company, you only do what you absolutely have to, and nothing else."

"That's Pepper talk."

"Most of the time," Steve continued stubbornly, "you spent on your research and trying to blow up the mansion."

"And that's Jarvis."

"You constantly mess with the armor, adjusting it, making it better," Steve pressed his knees to the corner of the bed and pursed his lips, "but you almost never use it. You could've been a hero, you could be saving people, you've all the opportunities for it, but you only help the military from time to time. Yet you still offered this opportunity to me, and gave me the armor, so you must've considered the possibility."

"That's finally Steve," Tony smirked. He also got down from the bed and stood in front of Steve. "Him, I’ll answer.”

Tony paused, probably gathering his thoughts, and Steve grabbed the t-shirt and came closer.

"It's not that easy to be a hero," said Tony. "It's even harder to do something for others, disregarding your own needs. I think if I've started saving people – don't think I haven't tried – I would be deceiving them and myself. What kind of hero would I be?"

"You saved me from Hulk," reminded him Steve. "You've risked your life."

"And it turned out Hulk is a jolly green giant, you and doctor Banner are best friends, and I chose the wrong side of things. Again." A crooked and somehow really tired smile appeared on Tony's face. "That's the problem. I always choose the wrong side and make mistakes. I trust the wrong people, I risk lives of others, somebody will die at some point, and..."

"Everybody makes mistakes," said Steve.

"Even you? You're the perfect man from the forties, a soldier, a hero, and..."

Steve squeezed his shoulders and kissed him. Now, in the slowly brightening light of the morning, without the adrenalin and anger making them speed things up, the kiss was different – slow and careful. Steve wasn't actually sure, what either of them were doing right until this moment – everything looked different in daylight.

"Trying to shut me up? I like your method," Tony hummed. "Do you not like compliments?"

"I don't like stupid ones," Steve frowned. "It's not about making mistakes. You either accept the responsibility, or you don't. That's it."

The silence was broken by the sound of the Imperial March. Steve flinched, and Tony reached for the phone on the bedside table.

"No, I haven't overslept, Pep," he said, amused. "I'm coming soon."

He locked the phone and looked at Steve, the expression on his face soft and thoughtful. Steve already saw him looking like that, but this was the first time it was for him.

"Alright," he said, after a pause. "I gotta go, or Pepper will have my head."

He moved away, quickly stepped to the other side of the room, to a cupboard with sliding doors.

"Blue or black?" he yelled.

"Blue," Steve answered on a reflex. He was still feeling slow and half-asleep, although usually five or six hours of rest would be enough for him.

"Of course, it's blue," muttered Tony. "You can play with the armor while I'm gone, just don't save any kittens from trees."

"D'you have a list of things I'm not allowed to do in the armor?"

Tony laughed from inside the cupboard.

"What list? I can't even make one for grocery shopping. Pepper has one. It does include the saving kittens thing."

Steve snorted against his will. He could easily imagine that.

"I don't have access to the workshop," he said. Tony turned away from the ties he was contemplating and looked at Steve.

"You had it since the moment you came here." He looked at his watch. "If you ever tried to open the door, you would've known that."

That was an unfortunate blunder on his part, but it didn't even occur to Steve to check. The workshop always seemed closed, and he took it for the hint he thought it was.

Either way, first he had to do something to wake up, finally – exercising seemed like the best solution. Steve took the cup from the table where Tony left it and opened the door.

"Hey," Tony called. Steve stopped and turned around. "Don't go to bed without me."

Steve took a deep breath and let the air out.

"I won't."

***

Steve expected the mansion to be empty – except for Jarvis, of course, but Jarvis didn't really count. Then he came into the kitchen, though he found Happy there, half-asleep and listening to monotonous voice of Animal Planet's narrator. Steve froze at the door, fighting the urge to disappear unnoticed.

But Happy already heard him. He opened his eyes, sat straight and looked at Steve with a hint of surprise on his face.

"Good morning," said Steve, cautious, cursing himself in his thoughts for his rumpled clothes and shabby appearance. "Is Tony being late?"

"Hey," Happy greeted him amicably. "No, the boss is never late."

"Never?"

"He's the boss. The people in charge are never late, it's the others that come too early. The meeting won't start without him either way."

Steve went for the coffee machine, trying to look as calm as possible with Happy's inquiring gaze practically burning his back.

"Pepper said you live here," the man remarked. Steve fought the sharp inexplicable urge to stand at attention and kept making coffee.

"Temporarily," he said in a calm voice. "We're working on a project together. Makes things easier."

"Yeah, I remember taking you to Doctor Pym. Are you a scientist, too?"

Steve was starting to think that in this modern world people were not divided by class or color of their skin, or even occupations, but by being or not being scientists. Steve was hard pressed to say which group was the privileged one.

"Not quite." Running away under the pretense of having something urgent to do seemed rather stupid, and Steve sat down, waiting till the coffee machine finished working. "The opposite, if you think about it. I'm taking a part in the... experiment."

"That's weird," said Happy.

Steve tensed. People often told him he couldn't lie, although what he said was more of a half-truth, than an outright lie.

"Why?"

"Boss works with machines, not people," explained Happy.

His gaze was not unkind, but still careful and sharp. Steve suspected, if Happy had some objections against him living here, he'd be already on the ground with his face pressed to the floor. 

"Maybe, I am a machine," Steve made a half-assed joke, and Happy, to his surprise, gave him a wide smile.

"That wouldn't surprise me," he said, getting up. "See you soon."

Happy left, leaving Steve in the kitchen with only a hissing coffee machine for company. He looked at it, his thoughts a mile away, not quite sure why he turned it on in the first place. He didn't finish the coffee.

***

Instead of heading to the armor, Steve went upstairs to sort through his purchases – paints, a couple of canvases and new brushes. He felt the urge to come back to his old hobby and start drawing again for a while already, but only now he finally felt ready for it. 

Unfinished ideas and images were swimming through his head: the armor, Tony, the reactor, nanobots, that resembled tiny metal bugs in Steve's imagination. It all mixed in his imagination, almost drowning his thoughts. To relax and get his feelings under control, Steve took a shower (half-absently remembering Tony in the shower and what he was doing and what it lead to). Then he dressed and looked at the paints again. 

He was drawing from memory, closing his eyes to mix the familiar imagery in his mind, not quite sure what was it that he was trying to draw in the first place, how much time, if any at all, had passed. The familiar feelings overwhelmed him almost as much as being connected to the armor again did earlier. But if the armor could wait, the image in his head demanded to be drawn.

He was distracted from his thoughts, finally, by somebody knocking on his door. Pepper was standing there, holding her shoes under her arm like one would hold a clutch.

"There's an art auction soon," she said, softly stepping onto the carpet with her bare feet. "I usually attend as a representative of the Stark Industries. Tony has a bad habit of imagining himself an art collector."

"You could say that," answered Steve, distractedly. "The meeting's already over?"

"He was misbehaving and stayed back to have a supposedly serious conversation with somebody," Pepper shook her head. "So, the auction. You said you like art, so naturally, I had this idea, why not take you?”

She frowned, suddenly, looking at something above Steve's shoulder, then raised her eyebrows. 

"And you don't just like it. Steve, what's that?"

Steve turned around and looked at the canvas, with his full concentration this time, and felt a wave of irrational embarrassment at somebody else getting to see this.

"Tony will love it," said Pepper. "He's very fond of paintings of himself. The auction's in a week, by the way, I'll remind you about it later."

"Yeah," answered Steve, still not quite understanding, what he was agreeing to. "Of course.”

The painting was of Tony: the armor covering him slowly, flowing over his hands like liquid gold, coming around the reactor glowing in his chest. Tony didn't just look like a part of the machine – he was the machine, the Iron Man, in every sense of the word.

Steve had a desperate thought that some things would've been better staying in his head.

"What's on his chest?" asked Pepper, and immediately continued, "no, don't answer that. I know you can't ask artists things like that. Alright." She looked at her elegant silver watch and pushed the hair back from her forehead. "When Tony comes back, tell him he's an ass, but I still got us the financing. And tell him not to call me today."

"Of course," said Steve. Pepper smiled, her expression growing softer.

"Thanks," she said and left, the steps of her bare feet on the floor as quiet as before.

***

Tony didn't come back in the evening.


	5. Avengers, Assemble!

Janet sounded worried. Steve, who was half-asleep, couldn’t understand what she wanted from him at first, but when he did, he immediately woke up.

"Do you know, where Tony is?" asked Janet.

Steve thought about it.

"He had a meeting yesterday," he remembered. Did Tony come back at night? "I'll check."

Janet was quiet, Steve could only hear her breathing a bit faster than normal, while he put on jeans in a hurry and left his bedroom. At the stairs, he met Jarvis who told him that Tony didn't come back.

"I think," Steve told Janet, finally, "he stayed at work yesterday."

That was weird. Tony's workplace was here, in the basement, as far as Steve was concerned. 

Janet was silent for a few more minutes.

"This is stupid," she muttered. "Something's wrong with Hank. He jumped at dawn and dashed somewhere, mumbling about a conference, or whatever, but who's going to hold a conference on Sunday at four in the morning? Besides, I'd know, I know everything about Hank's meetings."

"Where is he now?" asked Steve in a hoarse voice.

He suddenly felt a wave of worry, unexplained and vague as of now, but present all the same.

"I convinced him to stay at home," Janet sighed. "I promised to shut him in the bathroom, if he goes anywhere, but he wasn't angry, I wouldn't be able to handle him angry, just sort of apathetic. Well, and I thought, what if there is a conference? But none of his colleagues are answering their phones. Neither did Tony, so I thought I'd call you."

She snorted.

"It's probably just a stupid misunderstanding," she continued, feigning ease, "all these experiments will drive me crazy before they do Hank. Sorry if I woke you up."

Steve didn't think it was stupid. He was generally suspicious, even a slight deviation from the norm would make him question things. During the war, this behavior was dictated by his desire to stay alive, but now the rules were different. Maybe this was just how scientists behaved.

"Call someone else," said Steve, barely attempting to not make it sound like an order. "Three or four other scientists, preferably ones that are somewhat connected to Hank. Then call me back."

"You think this is serious?" asked Janet, in disbelief, but before Steve could say anything else, she continued, "I’ll call back in half an hour."

***

It was early, and the unexpectedly empty mansion seemed gigantic and eerie to Steve. Tony didn't come back; everything in the room was left the same way it was yesterday, when Steve woke up here. Nobody even adjusted the blanked; Jarvis apparently didn't clean here every day. There was also nobody in the kitchen. Steve froze next to the workshop's doors, hesitating, but the moment he stepped forward, the doors opened invitingly, as if they were waiting for him to come.

The armor was glowing in the light of a lamp. A computer on a table was turned on, and Steve stopped next to it, trying to formulate his request. 'Accidents involving scientists?' 'Weird things in the last twenty-four hours?' He didn't know what he was looking for, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was too weird even for this remarkable world to be normal.

Steve also wasn't sure he should've worried about Tony. The man loved to disappear and behave so unexpectedly, as if surprising the world with his mere existence was his mission. He could've gone away on business, or to entertain himself, or accidentally fly to the North Pole without telling anyone. 

Steve's thoughts sounded pathetic even to himself.

"Yes?" Steve answered the moment his phone started vibrating.

"Nobody's answering their phones," said Janet, her tone emotionless. "I called a friend of mine, she says her husband also left for some important conference. And well, I thought, it made sense to call a guard in that center where Hank works."

Steve muttered something approving, his eyes still on the headlines.

"He said, a couple of scientists that were staying late, you know how absorbed they get in their work, well, they all left together. Just took their cars and left."

"How many?"

"Five? Or so?" Janet paused, and Steve heard a clinking noise – she was steering her tea. "Steve, what's going on?"

"I don't know," he said. "But I'm going to find out."

"If you learn anything..."

"I'll call you." Steve's voice was composed and sure, as if he hoped to transfer his calmness to Janet. "Don't worry."

"Thank you," she muttered and disconnected the call.

Steve's eyes, jumping over headlines, stumbled upon a familiar word. He scrolled up and clicked the link: nothing special, just a report of a car accident, only... 'The person responsible for the accident was a Future Farm scientist Maya Hanson. According to preliminary data, the woman was under influence of drugs and refused to give any comments. She was brought to the nearest hospital...' The announcement was followed by a warning about traffic jams.

Steve rubbed his hand in a nervous gesture. It was a dubious lead, but it was the only one he had. There was an obsessive thought jumping around Steve's head: if this concerned scientists, maybe, Tony was also involved. Was that why he didn't come back? 

Steve looked back at the stand with the armor watching him blindly and dispassionately. Steve considered it for a few moments and then reached for it – the armor answered, of course, almost immediately, its eyes glowing blue, only on the other side, there was silence.

Steve didn't feel Tony. 

There could be a reasonable explanation, of course, the distance, for example, or maybe, Tony was blocking him somehow, but Steve still felt a wave of irrational panic overwhelm him.

Was this some kind of terrorist attack? But why were they targeting only scientists? Was it a drug that they administered at research institutes? Or was it something else?

He tried to calm down and convince himself that Janet was panicking for no reason and making him panic as well. Not a lot of people were answering their phones at five in the morning, after all, and the scientists from the center could be all just going on their business. The accident with Maya Hanson was just a coincidence, and Tony just wanted to get away from the board meetings.

He could call Reed, but the man still hadn’t contacted him. Whatever happened on the space station, there weren't allowed out of quarantine, and Steve could only trust Johnny's letter. He couldn't physically worry about everyone at once.

The silence on the other end of the armor was oppressive and wrong. Letting his fear get the best of him, Steve stood up and felt the parts of the armor assemble around him. He breathed in, slowly, and breathed out.

"Can you find Tony Stark?" he asked, his voice unsure. "Locate Tony Stark."

A glowing message appeared on the screen before his eyes: 'Processing request: locate Tony Stark.' Steve froze, waiting. 'The object is located.'

"Is he injured?.. Wait... Physical damage?"

'Unable to process the request.'

"Dammit," Steve swore, "why? Whatever. Show me the map."

A map showed on the screen with a red glowing dot in the middle of it. Steve studied it – the dot was a few miles away from the site of the car accident, in some research center. Maybe, he was getting paranoid after all.

"Contact Tony Stark," asked Steve, after some time. "I know you can."

Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then Steve felt like something pushed, grabbing him by his collar like a kitten and throwing him out the door. His chest around the reactor hurt, and his head was ringing, as if somebody just punched him. Steve swore, swayed on his feet and grabbed the corner of the table leaving deep dents from his metal fingers. 

Now, all hope that Tony was okay was gone. Even if this was all a stupid misunderstanding, Steve was prepared to hear the man berate him for ages, but he couldn't stand still knowing this was happening to him.

The screen in front of his eyes showed all exists from the mansion and traced the road to the lab, following his unvoiced command. Steve stood up, carefully, recalling all Tony's pointers, but as he rose few feet in the air, it turned out to be easier just to follow his well-trained instincts – the armor was listening, following his every order the moment Steve relaxed enough to take charge of it.

The city blurred in his vision the moment Steve left the building. The flight was accelerating, and for the moment everything went aside, his goal, the reason Steve donned the armor in the first place. There was just the sky and frightening lightness and the machine that lived with him.

Steve pushed it all aside and turned, following the route the armor calculated, trying not to speed up too much. He was well aware of the speed the armor was capable of, his head was full of data: flight conditions, air resistance, the maximum height Steve could reach. He wondered, absent-mindedly, if Tony was seriously considering going into space, and then: god, he hoped Tony wasn't in trouble.

The city was flowing behind, and Steve could name every street he was flying by and even every person in the buildings he passed – the armor provided the information the moment he thought about it. Steve froze in the air above the car accident side – the place was glowing red on his map – and gave it a worried look. 

The pigeons soared into the air from a roof of a building nearby, startled by a gust of air. The armor alerted Steve to danger and he moved to the left, avoiding a hit – an arrow flew by him, hitting a building beside Steve and blew up, throwing Steve a few feet forward. The moment it did, Steve raised his hands, firing repulsors, and flew higher.

"I suggest you give yourself up," Steve heard from his speakers, "I won't miss the second time."

"Why did you miss the first?" asked Steve. The armor was scanning his surroundings, looking for the attacker.

"A warning shot in the knees, all that," the voice hummed. "Seriously, man, surrender. I know you've balls of steel, Iron Man, but the perimeter is surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. and even you..."

Steve rushed forward, letting out an array of small rockets that crushed arrows aimed at him, and flew over the roof that housed his adversary.

"Shit, easy!" the man shouted, almost amused, and rolled to the side.

They aimed their weapons at the same time: Steve his repulsors, and the fair-haired man – his bow.

"Hi," the archer grinned. Steve couldn't see his eyes – they were hidden by his glasses. "I knew you'd fly by. You always do when shit like this happens."

Steve swayed awkwardly on his feet, pushed by the wind, but quickly straightened again. The tip of the arrow aimed at him followed his movement, never leaving its aim at his reactor.

"Did you have something to do with it?" Steve asked, and the archer winced.

"No, I'm a sniper. Your personal sniper, to be precise. And, in case you’re wondering, this baby will pierce even your titanium skin."

"A sniper with a bow?" Steve asked, bewildered.

"Oh, shut up," the archer snorted. "Let's part our ways amicably. I don't really want to chase you. Go home, don't get in our way, and I'll go home and won't have to kill you. Best case scenario. Right?"

"Sorry," said Steve and flew up quickly – maybe too quickly. He heard the archer swear, dodged an arrow that flew by him, but it blew up right in the air, throwing Steve backwards. He could fire small rockets after the archer, or, as the display conveniently suggested, a smoke bomb, but something told him the man was ready for that.

The armor leveled in the air, and they froze again, watching each other, only this time Steve lowered the repulsors.

"This is getting annoying," said the archer, his voice cheerful. "We can dance all day, but we all have stuff to get to."

People taught Steve, once upon a time, that when the situation is at an impasse, you have to look for a third option. But he could hardly focus on looking for the right solution, now. So, he decided, for once, to act before thinking.

"Listen," said Steve, carefully landing on the roof, raising clouds of smoke and debris from the concrete. "Do I understand correctly that you can't allow me to look into the situation with Maya Hanson?"

The archer shrugged.

"I had no instructions about that," he hummed. "Just not to let you onto the crash site. My bosses don't particularly like you, as you know."

Steve didn't. He didn't have a chance to learn much about S.H.I.E.L.D., he figured it was some sort of government organization, and probably classified. He also wasn't sure about Tony's dealings with the government. Him mentioning rare cooperation didn't paint the whole picture, and Steve sharply felt, again, a rift between his knowledge and the real world. But the archer was certain he was speaking to Iron Man, and Steve could use that.

"I," started Steve, but then hesitated, "how may I call you?"

"The Golden Archer? Perfection Personified? My handle's Hawkeye, if you're asking about that."

"Hawkeye." The display lit up with information and personal data, and Steve was starting to have some idea of why exactly S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't like Iron Man. Tony was clearly hacking their systems. "You're investigating scientists' disappearances?"

"What we're investigating is none of your business," Hawkeye answered, calmly. According to the armor, his name was Clint Barton, he was unmarried, got arrested a couple of times, but the chargers were dropped. "It was more fun when we were fighting," added the man.

"I need to know what happened there."

"And I need you to stop trespassing. Now, one of us is in the wrong here."

He lowered his bow, too, and was standing smirking with his hands crossed. The dim autumn sun was just starting to light his figure and clothes, making the cloth look dark purple.

Steve could say they were both right, to find a way to reach an agreement. At least, he was planning on doing that, when they got interrupted by a phone call. The ringing sounded directly in Steve's ears and, unaccustomed to it, he shook his head, trying to get rid of the unpleasant feeling.

"Did you find Tony?" was the first thing Janet said.

"Not yet."

"Hank almost came back to himself," the armor's sound system made it seem like she was standing just behind his back. "You need to hear what he's saying."

"Tell me the address."

Steve immediately updated the map. Hank was still his main lead in this whole thing, and the only one who could explain anything. His flat was relatively close, and Steve was just getting ready to fly off, when he felt something tapping his back. Only then he remembered he wasn't alone, and swore at himself mentally. Hawkeye knocked on the chest plate, like one would check the wall for hollow spots.

"Cool," he remarked. "Do you know it's really creepy when you stare with those hollow eyes? Ever thought of drawing pupils on them, or something? Did you learn anything interesting?"

"How do you..."

"You froze in the middle of conversation. Just bam, and turned off," Hawkeye hit his palm with his hand. "I figured you were talking to someone else."

"It's none of your business," said Steve. "I gotta go."

"Oh, playing my own card, are you? That's fair. But..."

Steve didn't hear what he was going to say. He put his hands parallel to the earth and flew up, making Hawkeye sway back from the force of it. Just in a few moments, the roof was far behind him. It somewhat surprised Steve that there were no arrows flying after him, but he figured it was for the best.

The city was waking up. Any other day Steve would love to watch New York come alive – there was something mesmerizing about the sight, especially from above. Cars filled the roads, people milled about like ants. Buildings flew past him, looking like they were molded from whole glass, but all Steve could think about inevitably brought him back to Tony. He was still hopelessly trying to connect and to feel another man's pulse under his throat, only calming down when he felt the distant familiar feeling. Mostly, he was deceiving himself and hated himself for it.

The last few months, it seemed, Steve's whole world was centered around Tony, and he wasn't about to lose this new one, after already losing his world before.

***

Steve wasn’t as surprised as he probably should’ve been at seeing a jungle in the middle of New York. He was really lucky, in a way, that he got introduced to geniuses and their weirdness very slowly, like one would train a wild animal. First moving through time and space, then Hulk, then living with the armor, and now – a huge terrace on an inconspicuous grey building that looked like a picture taken in the middle of Amazon forest, just miniaturized. He briefly wondered what the city's administration thought about it.

Steve carefully landed on the terrace and froze awkwardly when a myriad of ants scattered away from him. A brightly colored bird flew from one of the trees, and Steve noticed a butterfly on the petals of a huge flower. If he understood correctly, it wasn't just a garden on a terrace, but a continuation of Hank's lab.

"Iron Man?"

Janet was standing in a glass door, in a dressing gown that barely covered her knees, and Steve looked away.

"Yes," he said. "I came because of Tony Stark, and..."

"Oh my god," Janet gasped and covered her mouth with a hand. "Steve, you're Iron Man?"

Her gaze was jumping all over him, as if she was trying to recognize familiar features in the metal armor.

"I should've guessed," she said, quickly, running up to him. Ants started crawling around her bare feet, but Steve thought there was probably no reason to warn her about that. He debated denying everything, but he couldn't make himself say a single word. "All your secrets," Janet kept talking, touching the metal breastplate. "Your secret past. You never talk about yourself. And you're friends with Tony, and Tony's connected to Iron Man. God, it's really obvious and... What's that?"

Steve carefully touched Janet's wrist with his metal-covered fingers and looked at her open palm with a small dark shard, resembling a broken pixel more than anything real. It blinked red at him.

"Hawkeye," said Steve, suddenly tired. It was a bit stupid of him to expect to be let go so easily, it was even more stupid to let the man get close. This whole day seemed just like a series of stupid ridiculous accidents that was coming apart like an old rusty mechanism. Steve could only imagine what was waiting for him next.

The armor's scanning system suggested it was a tracking device and that Hawkeye already knew where to look for him, and Janet kept watching Steve expecting him to know what to do.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell's going on?" she demanded.

The ants were still crawling all over her feet, but Janet barely paid any attention to it. She brushed the insects off and tugged Steve towards the door.

"Hank came back to himself, but he's only saying gibberish. You appear in the armor. Tony disappears. Don't argue! I don't like this. Dad always told me to stay clear of scientist, but have I ever listened?"

Steve made a few unsure steps and froze next to the door. He knew he was using another man's identity and abusing their trust, but he really needed to find Tony, and he could always explain later.

"It's not my secret to tell," said Steve, and gave the mental command. The faceplate opened, and then he disassembled the armor, the way Tony did before. It gathered into a small case that fell next to Steve's legs. Steve was still in his home jeans and a t-shirt that did nothing to hide the glow of the reactor, his hair was disheveled, and his fringe fell over his eyes. He probably looked ridiculous. Tony always managed to look beautiful, even when he was hurt and didn't sleep the whole night before, but Steve wasn't at all like this armor. He was more like a big clumsy machine of his world. They both looked equally ridiculous.

Janet stepped next to him and fixed his hair. 

"It's okay, Steve," she said, softly. "Tony will be alright."

The fact that Janet felt the need to console him after mistaking him for the Iron Man somehow just made everything worse. He wasn’t the Iron Man, not really. That was Tony.

"I know. Where's Hank?"

Inside, the flat looked almost normal, if you ignored the huge aquarium with ants along the wall. Hank Pym was definitely a passionate kind of person. The closeness of so many insects unnerved Steve, even though he was never squeamish.

"I got him out of the lab, but I couldn't take away his toys, you know. He's like a baby. The formulas calm him down."

There was also a robot next to the wall. It didn't look like an armor, and while it was human-like, the dark steel color of his eyes made him look almost sinister. The shadows were playing on its face, and the eyes looked unseeing.

"That's..."

"Another of Hank's toys," Janet frowned, "Ultro? Altro?"

"Ultron," said Hank, dimly.

He came out of the room, covered in an orange blanket and almost stepping on its edges that came down to the floor.

"One day I'll finish it," he continued. He was watching Steve with badly hidden animosity, but his gaze grew warmer when it landed on Janet. "You came for the information, right? There's not much I can tell. But still, listen."

"Sit down," said Janet, pushing Steve towards the chair. Then she came towards Hank and adjusted the blanket, so he wouldn't fall on his next step. There was something soft and intimate about it, and Steve looked away. His t-shirt still smelled slightly of Tony's perfume, and he felt like the smell became stronger when he tried to straighten the fabric.

"Listen," Hank repeated, "my head starts hurting every time I try to think about it. Something's weird going on, but I'd never notice it if not for Janet." He rubbed his temple and rolled his head. "Science conferences. There were a lot of them lately, I've been on many, but I can't even vaguely remember what I was doing. And I wasn't there alone."

"How far do those blackouts go?" asked Steve.

"Far enough. A few months, maybe half a year. It was definitely already happening in spring."

"And nobody noticed anything?" 

Hank raised his gaze, and Steve nodded. Scientists, like Hank, Reed, and even Tony, were closed off and headstrong, they could run away any moment to pursue an idea or a thought they had. Nobody would blink an eye, if they suddenly rushed off to a conference at five o'clock in the morning. Nobody would notice.

"But why," Steve continued the thought, "have you noticed now? What changed? I mean..."

To Steve's surprise, Hank blushed. His neck and cheeks burned red, and the orange blanket only made it look worse. Hank lowered his face, unsuccessfully trying to hide. Janet tousled his hair. 

"Oh," said Steve.

"Oh," confirmed Janet. "I'm used to Hank rushing off places, but not right out of my hands..." She moved her shoulders, awkwardly. "He wasn't himself, Steve. He didn't know where he was, what he was doing. I had to spend half an hour trying to get him to calm down."

It awoke something in Steve's memory: some time ago, in that other life, he encountered something like this as well. They had a problem with hypnosis the last few months he spent at war: Steve saved soldiers from captivity, only to have them attack him for no reason. They didn't know where they were, what was going on, they were completely disoriented. Colonel Phillips warned him about hypnosis, said it was the most dangerous thing, and god forbid Rogers let himself and the machine fall under anybody's control. 

He didn't manage to figure out who was behind it, in the end. The trace disappeared in the Hydra's lair. The same place Steve's formal life disappeared.

"Could it be hypnosis? Could someone affect you that way?"

"I... I don't know." Hank rubbed his face again, looking exhausted. "The more I think about it, the less I understand. Like there's some block in my mind."

"I take it it's pointless to ask if there were any new people in your life lately?" asked Steve.

"Actually, there's you, for starters," said Janet.

It didn't sound like an accusation, or even suspicion, but Steve still raised his hands with his palms up. 

He was still feeling like the chasm of worry and lack of feeling at the other end was drowning him. He knew he had no right to get angry, but the anxiety was overcoming him, no matter how hard Steve tried to fight it. Janet managed to stop Hank. Steve didn't even get a chance.

"And my therapist. I started going to therapy in spring. Talked to him," muttered Hank, "about everything. He specializes on scientists, kinda... helps them? I don't know. Is it important? Did Tony have a therapist?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Doctor Faustus," said Hank. "That's his name."

Steve heard it before, Pepper mentioning it in passing, seeing it in newspapers or hearing it somewhere, it was just on the tip of his tongue. That was a clue. A therapist could do something to Hank, even hypnotize him, maybe, but why the hell would he need to? And why the hell would he need Tony?

"Do you have a phone? An address?"

"I do," came from the door.

Steve stood up, and the armor reacted instantly to his inner panic. He still didn't quite get a hang of controlling it, with the ease that Tony had, and it reacted to his smaller flares of emotion. Tony would probably call Steve paranoid – he was fully encased in the armor before he fully turned to look at the intruder.

Hawkeye was leaning against the doorway, his pose overly casual.

"I thought you'd be taller," he said.

"I thought you'd get here faster."

Steve stood in front of Hank and Janet, repulsor glowing on his raised hand. It was nothing serious, just the light, but it could be taken as a warning.

"Hey, I'm not here to fight," said Hawkeye. "Boss went crazy suddenly and decided you can help me. Air support, all that." He tilted his head sideways. "My partner's busy somewhere else, and to be honest, I'd prefer the pretty girl behind your back, but the boss insists..."

"The pretty girl is called Janet van Dyne, and you're on private property, so get the hell out of here," said Janet.

Hawkeye raised his glasses, like a gentleman would do with a top hat, and bowed mockingly. He was very young, with disheveled blond hair and bright blue eyes. Clint Barton, as Steve remembered, didn't look at all like a mercenary and a killer. He looked like someone you wanted to trust.

"As soon as I'm done here, darling," he said. "Are you going?" he continued, addressing Steve. "Our medics finished with Maya Hansen and learned where she wanted to go. If we hurry, we'll get the whole circus together."

"Name at least one reason I should trust you."

"I'm a hero in this story," Barton stepped away from the doorway and spread his hands, as if stretching his shoulders. "Oh, come on. I know where all the fun is, you want to go there, and you're Iron Man. Besides, if I read the situation correctly, your friends," he nodded at Janet and Hank, "got messed up in it, too. Boss doesn't often allow others to meddle in our business, and you've been circling SHIELD for a while. Everybody wins. You're coming?"

Steve watched the armor's sensors carefully and hadn't noticed any changes. Barton's pulse didn't speed up, his breathing didn't change. He knew those like him were trained to lie, and they were trained to do it very well, but he didn't have any other choice. If trusting SHIELD was the only way he could help Tony, then Steve was ready to take that risk. He nodded, then remembered that the armor concealed such subtle movements and said out loud:

"I hope I'm not making a mistake."

Barton shrugged.

Before they could leave the flat, Hank rose from his chair and started typing something on the barely visible panel on the aquarium. 

"Wait, I'm coming with you." His hands shook, but he managed to enter the right combination. "I wanted to try this for a while. This is my chance to check what I've managed to do..."

He kept muttering something under his breath, quieter and quieter, until he stopped talking altogether. Something screeched, some kind of mechanism coming into motion, and a door behind the aquarium opened. Hank slipped there, losing the blanket in the process.

"What's he talking about?" asked Steve.

"I've no idea."

Janet crossed her hands on her chest, looking threatening – the same way she did the day Hank's lab got trashed. She noticed Barton's gaze and tried to hide her legs with her gown, but it was too short to be able to hide anything. Barton grinned, but for some reason, Janet looked neither hurt, nor offended, in fact, she was hiding a smile. Sometimes Steve didn't understand anything about women.

"What have you found?" asked Steve, just to break the silence.

Hank was fiddling with something in his secret room, and the shadow it threw on the aquarium looked like some kind of sea monster.

"Our analysts noticed strange activity among scientists a while back," Barton answered, completely serious, and Steve turned to watch him. "Oh, you're staring with those slits again. Creepy." Steve removed the faceplate, and Barton nodded. "They started digging into it, but couldn't find anything concrete. Today's lead is an accident. If you didn't go to Pym, we still wouldn't have anything to go on. But you did, Hansen came back to herself, and everybody took two and two together and linked it to their shared therapist."

"So, it's Faustus."

"Did he try to get to your boss, too?"

Steve didn't immediately understand Barton meant Tony by that, and then he did, Steve barely kept himself from making a noise. He thought back on how it must've looked to everyone: Tony Stark disappears, the armor starts independent investigation. No wonder everybody took him for some kind of bodyguard: nobody knew for sure who was behind the mask, and Tony always was vague on the topic. Steve watched a couple of interviews he gave about it.

"Why is he doing this?" asked Steve. "What's his endgame?"

"How should I know? My job's shooting flies on the wall. No insult meant for you lovely pets, Miss van Dyne," added Barton.

"I," started Janet, but froze when Hank suddenly appeared next to her, seemingly out of thin air. 

He suddenly seemed taller – in a black suit made of some strange material with a few bright yellow strips instead of his blanked. It didn't look good on him, but that was probably not worth commenting on.

"Oh, honey," said Janet, tenderly. "I'm designing suits from now on, alright?"

Hank nodded and looked at her with a mix of hope and anxiety.

"I... actually, I've made one for you as well," he rubbed his head, nervous. "I thought you'd want to..."

Before he finished, Janet already disappeared in the lab.

"Great," Steve heard Barton's disgruntled voice. "Let's assemble a parade."

"Pym particles," asked Steve. He felt slightly excited and felt sorry that Reed, who'd be thrilled, wasn't here to see this.

On the other hand, it was good Reed wasn't here. Otherwise, it was likely Faustus would target him as well. 

"Trial run." Hank disappeared again, but this time Steve noticed him, small as an ant, flying from one point to another. He grew to his normal size again next to the aquarium and shook his head.

"I wonder if you can increase separate parts of your body with this thing?" asked Barton.

Hank gave him an uncomprehending gaze, but Janet distracted him. She threw herself at him, with her hands around his neck, in a similar costume and kissed him loudly on his cheek.

"This is why I love you," she said. "You know how to please a woman."

***

Steve thought they wasted a horrible amount of time on learning things they absolutely didn't need to learn, but actually, the sun was just rising. It was a few hours before noon, and, standing on the terrace, Steve watched sunlight pass through thick tree crowns.

"Faustus is gathering everyone in his Manhattan office," said Barton. "If he's planning on taking over the world, this is just funny. You know, talking about world domination with a view on Central park."

Steve didn't find it funny, but he nodded anyway. His and Barton's senses of humor were vastly different, but he figured he and Tony would probably get along. 

He immediately forbade himself thinking of Tony.

"The armor's not made for carrying passengers, but I can handle four people," said Steve.

"No need," answered Hank. "The particles aren't exactly for changing size, they're for controlling insects. Didn't Tony tell you? Anyway." Hank lowered his gaze. He often avoided direct eye-contact. "Me and Janet will figure ourselves out."

"Just you, then," Steve nodded at Barton.

"Taking a ride with the Iron Man," Barton grinned and adjusted the quiver on his back. "That'll be worth telling children."

The pause between learning the problem and taking action was dragging out. This last half a year, Steve got used to taking care of problems immediately and almost lost that special sense of time that war brought. Now, there was a timer in his head, counting down seconds and minutes, keeping him from losing his mind. Steve's breath followed that timer and evened out from its jerky rhythm.

They reached the place they were looking for fairly quickly. It was hard to hold Barton and steer the armor at the same time, unfamiliar, Steve only ever carried wounded soldiers for short distances, barely leaving the ground. Now he was holding Barton a hundred feet high and was really scared of losing him – the ghostly feeling of having him slip through his fingers haunted him the whole flight. But nothing happened. He landed on the roof of an unremarkable building and looked at Central park, while Barton was getting used to being on solid ground again. 

"Maybe it wasn't worth it after all," he said with shaking voice. "It must feel different for you, from the inside."

"Of course," Steve answered, absent-mindedly. He wasn't really listening.

Hank and Janet appeared next to them, but this time Steve noticed them faster: Tony's armor was good at learning things, and once it noticed something, it kept track of it and reacted faster next time. First, Steve saw them as just tiny dots on an insect, then, at once, they were their normal size, Hank and Janet, hugging him closely. Barton jumped, raising his hand with the bow, and swore.

"Jesus, warn a guy."

Hank looked at him, and Steve recognized the carefree expression on his face. Like he felt whole, connected to the armor, the euphoria of getting to test his inventions kept Hank completely unaware of the world around him.

"We need a way in," said Steve. "I'm scanning the building, but it'll take time."

"We'll go through the ventilation shaft." Hank rubbed his chin and frowned. "It'll be faster, and my insects will check the upper floors, too."

Steve looked at Barton, but the man had a finger pressed to his ear and was listening to something intently. The glasses covered most of his face, but the way his lips were twisted made Steve think he wasn't pleased. 

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is sending backup," Barton said in another minute. "Let's go, Shellhead."

***

Going through the staircases in the armor proved quite a challenge, but Steve wasn't complaining. He felt himself coming closer to his target with every passing second of his internal timer, and, like a drawn bow, he was ready to shoot at any moment.

He left the upper floors to Hank and Janet, Barton went down to meet their backup, and Steve was alone yet again. Only this time, his skin was itching. Steve never thought he'd welcome the discomfort of it, but it practically stupefied him for a moment: he stopped to catch his breath, and regretted that Tony never put analgesics and sedatives in the armor. Then again, Tony himself never needed them, and he was the one the armor was really made for.

God, Tony. 

Steve made a few steps forward, trying to determine the direction, and then broke through the wall in front of him, not quite understanding what he was doing. There was no one in the building; each floor he passed through was empty, except for this one. On this one, where there was a second pulse beating in his neck.

Steve stepped through the hole in the wall and surveyed the damage. The dust was obscuring his vision but it was quickly coming down. The corridor was empty, but the life he felt was somewhere close and Steve kept going towards it. He noticed a few people in white coats, then people with weapons, and he shot a few small missiles to the guns in their hands. The guards, because that's probably who they were, were thrown back. Steve checked their life signs out of habit (they were fine), and moved forward. It's like he was pulled towards one of the rooms, and when he got to it, he couldn't make himself open the door for the first few seconds, his hand frozen against the doorknob. If not for the armor, it'd probably be shaking, but the stabilizers adjusted to the tremor. 

Steve took a deep breath, calming himself down, and pushed the door. Tony was sitting on the table – alive and whole, his pulse slightly slower than normal. He wasn't bound or knocked out, but he was not moving, looking at some point in front of him, and didn't react to Steve coming in. He was just in his pants, but by the looks of it, he wasn't tortured.

"Oh," he said, finally. "You're late."

Steve was on the verge of laughing, but he didn’t let out a sound, only came closer and sat down in front of the table. It probably looked weird from the outside – a human-shaped robot kneeling in front of a living person, but Steve didn't care. He raised the faceplate, took off part of the armor from his hand, just to touch another man's skin and feel the warmth of it.

"You gave me quite a scare," said Steve, softly.

"Never got abandoned after the first night before?" Tony hummed. His voice was alarmingly slow, but his eyes were clear. He looked at the place where Steve was touching him and smirked. "Still, you're late."

Tony straightened and shook his head. He was going to step down from the table, but Steve stopped him, holding him with one hand.

"I see," said Tony. "Steve, can you imagine that I talked to a shrink? He did some Jedi stuff to me," he waved his hand in the air, "these are not the scientists you need. You work for me now. You're going to do everything I tell you."

Now, he was talking too fast again, like he often did, his words getting meshed together, and just listening to Tony, alive and well, made it impossible for Steve not to smile. His facial muscles hurt, but he didn't care. He was listening to Tony’s voice, not really hearing a word he said, focusing on his pulse.

"He had a funny German accent. You know what I think, Steve?" said Tony. "I think he did it. He hypnotized me. I feel weird."

"It's okay," answered Steve. 

The corridor was empty: the guards ran away, only leaving broken guns behind them. Steve carefully looked around, but, noticing no threat, led Tony forward. They needed to leave the building, find Hank and Janet, and then sort things out with Barton. Then, Steve thought, everything would be finally alright.

Things went well until they reached one of the doors, it opened and a tall man with a cane stepped through. He looked out of place among broken beams and shattered windows, with his carefully pressed suit and a monocle. Like a ghost of times past.

"Iron Man," said the man, and immediately continued, "incapacitate him."

As he took a defensive position, Steve honestly expected the attack to come from aside, and not at all from Tony. He was stunned, his vision went black, and his head became heavy, like he was drugged. Tony was forcefully pulling the armor from him, and it felt like his skin was being torn apart. Steve managed to suppress the scream, made a step back and then another, until he hit a wall with his back. Tony was standing in front of him with unseeing eyes, and the armor was collecting into the case in front of him. 

It would be safer to disconnect from it, but Steve couldn't. He was trapped, hurting and disoriented, as the man with the cane was eyeing him from head to toe.

"You are the great Iron Man?" he asked. "The hero?"

"Did you expect somebody else?" Steve managed to say.

Faustus shook his head.

"I think we should go somewhere more comfortable. This corridor is too dusty. Serious conversations shouldn't take place among dirt and garbage." He nodded at Tony. "Bring him to my office."

Tony touched Steve and staggered back, giving a surprised look at his hand. Steve felt it, the touch burned, like it did the first time, like it did every time before. He straightened himself, blinking a couple of times and leaning on the wall before he could focus on walking.

The most surprising thing was that Tony didn't take the armor. He left it lying there in the dust, and nobody cared.

***

The view from the windows in Doctor Faustus' office opened unto Central Park. Steve gave a hollow laugh, covering his face with a hand.

"You find it funny, Mister Rogers?" Faustus sank into a deep chair, clearly made some time in previous century, and put the cane on the table in front of him. "Yes, I know your name. Mister Stark told me everything."

Steve squinted at Tony who was standing with his back straight and looking forward. There was no more life in his eyes than in Hank's robot.

"The thing is, Captain Rogers, you and I came from the same world," said Faustus. "Look at me when I'm talking to you. Thank you."

Steve noticed, absent-mindedly, that Faustus did have a German accent.

"What happened to Tony?"

"You worried about him? Hydra," he said, and Tony swayed.

Steve barely had enough time to catch him. Tony put his hand on his shoulder. The link between them was going both ways now, and Steve felt how weak he was. He pushed Tony to another chair, the one facing Faustus' table, and gave him a worried look.

"It's fine. I'm unharmed." Tony flinched and looked away. "I hate people messing with my head. I don't think you’re leaving this office on your own, Doctor."

"Are you threatening me?" clarified Faustus, unperturbed. He shook his head, as if threats were somehow breaking the etiquette. "Uncalled for. You're the one responsible for your problems, Mister Stark."

"The hell I am," said Tony. "It's not my fault that you're a psychotic hypnotist straight from a Nazi camp."

Faustus pursed his lips and looked up at Steve.

"Calm your friend, or I'll be forced to restrain him again."

Steve reflexively squeezed Tony's shoulders, and the man hissed from the pain, making Steve frown.

"You were saying?"

"Yes. Firstly, your friends, they are one floor below us now. Doctor Pym still isn't himself after our sessions, so, I think you understand what I'm trying to say." He looked at Steve through the monocle. "I think, you understand. You and I, Captain Rogers, we're a different kind of people."

"You are about to start a classic villain lecture from superhero movies," muttered Tony. "Great."

"Secondly," Doctor Faustus continued, undisturbed, "this was not my plan. I'm not Schmidt, or Zemo," Steve bit his lip, hearing familiar names; "I'm not obsessed with acquiring power. I don't need to bring Earth to its knees, you must agree, the idea seems quite stupid."

He, apparently, expected Steve to ask, but he was silent. Schmidt and Zemo, Red Skull and the Baron, they were two targets from Iron Man's list that Steve didn't have time to eliminate. Knowing that this world dealt with them without his help wasn't enough of a consolation.

"You are not much of a conversation partner," said Faustus, disappointed.

"You could offer him a glass of wine and a chair," hummed Tony, "that's how conversations start in a civilized world."

"What's the point?" asked Steve. "In our world, people like you start conversations with a bullet to the head."

"And people like you risk their lives to save the country."

They fell silent.

The situation was absurd, like a Mad Hatter's tea party, and Steve couldn't shake the feeling of irrational fear. He hoped Hank would protect Janet, no matter how strong the hypnosis, he hoped, Barton's reinforcements would arrive in time, he kept looking at Tony, feeling helpless and sorry. If this man, Doctor Faustus, was of his world, then he was Steve's responsibility. Him, and all that he managed to accomplish.

"So, what's the plan?" Tony, looking deliberately relaxed, leaned back in his chair. "Every villain has an evil plan."

"Who do you think I am, Mister Stark?"

"A madman. A maniac. The next villain defeated by the Iron Man." Strangely, Tony let out a smile. "There's a lot of options, and I've a good imagination. The question is, how do you want the media to call you? Daily Bugle loves coming up with telling names."

There was a bang from below them, so loud it made the floor vibrate. Steve looked at the floor, and only then remembered he didn't have the armor on anymore, it was still in the corridor.

Steve was distracted just for a second, but it was long enough for Doctor Faustus, who took out the knife from his cane and pushed it into Tony's hand. They screamed at the same time, Tony pulling his hand away, and Steve pressing his to his chest.

"Interesting," said Faustus. "You know, I wondered, for a long time, how we got here. At first, I thought I was alone, but then I've heard the rumors, somebody mentioned Doctor Pym, and I've learned that the Iron Man came to this world with me." Tony stopped cradling his hand and straightened up. He was, once again, under the influence of the Doctor's hypnosis. "So I looked, and I looked for answers, but I still don't know. That is not good."

Steve rubbed his hand and tried to focus on the man's words, if before Faustus was just wasting air, now he was inching towards something important.

"That's why you gathered all the scientists around you?"

"Knowledge is power," said Faustus. "I don't need to conquer the world, if people who can command insects, who build high-tech armor and make immortality elixirs, are under my control. But they didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"If I die with you."

Something was happening on the lower floors. Steve was hearing distant noises, as if something massive was moving towards them. He shook his head, brushing unhelpful thoughts aside.

"Why would that happen?"

"A fundamental law of the universe, Captain Rogers. We are polar opposites, we came here together from another world, and we are obviously connected. The question is, what are possible consequences of that connection, and I don't want to risk it. Do you?"

Tony was looking into nowhere. He had this calm, steady pulse again. Steve couldn't help himself and squeezed his shoulder again, trying to get his attention. Nothing happened.

"Let him go," asked Steve.

"He's distracting you from what's important. And that is that all these scientists built us a way back, Captain Rogers."

A way back, echoed in Steve's thoughts.

He spent so much time trying to convince himself it wasn't possible, that there was no way back, and he was stuck here, in his new home. Hearing it wasn't true, after all, made it harder to breathe.

Back home, there was the war, and his duty to his country. He had no friends, just his goal and his death that waited for him on the battlefield. Home was empty, cold and dead, and the only feeling it raised in him was his guilt. 

Steve rubbed his face. He felt weak and nauseous. He knew he couldn't trust Faustus, but his gut was telling him the man wasn't lying. There was no reason to lie about this. Steve could go back home.

"Why would you want this?" asked Steve. His voice was barely obeying him.

"Let's leave my noble motives aside," said Faustus, softly, "and focus on the fact that it's possible. I'm offering you to come home, Steven."

His voice, whispering and enchanting, promised things, flown like a melody, and Steve had to squeeze his hurting hand to clear his head. 

"You'll solve your problem," he said. "You won't have to kill me, you'll just get rid of me, of your potential death."

"Yes," answered Faustus, simply. "And you have to agree with me. This world has its Iron Man. Yours, you left without a protector. Doesn't it bother you, that you don’t know if the war is over? If it resulted in the victory that you worked so hard for?"

He was saying the exact things Steve wanted and feared of hearing. The only thing Faustus was asking for all that he promised was that Steve leave this world, and Steve knew that he was hesitating – choosing – and hated himself for it. 

The noise was getting louder, but Steve was only aware of it because of the vibration in his legs. The blood was rushing in his ears, and everything swam in front of his eyes. The mere possibility of choice was driving him crazy, as if he was falling into abyss.

Faustus raised his cane again, showing Steve its carved head, there was some scheme there, something mechanic, Steve was hard pressed to understand, what exactly, but Tony would probably know. That thought, about Tony, brought with it a gnawing feeling of loss, and it occurred to Steve that he'd already made his choice, the moment he heard the question.

He...

A powerful blast brought down the wall behind Steve back. He hit the floor with his knees. The concrete beneath him started cracking and falling apart. Steve grabbed the ledge, but before he could raise his head, he heard glass breaking and a shout, and a part of the wall and the floor fell down. It brought with it Faustus. And Tony. And his way home.

Steve let go, before he could think, but even before that, he gave the armor his order. He was free-falling for a few stores, counting second till he'd hit the ground, but then metal plates started coming around him. The faceplate covered his face, and Steve saw Tony – he was falling quicker, with his arms spread wide, flying towards the ground. Steve straightened, got his bearings and fired the repulsors.

He caught up to him right next to the ground, grabbed Tony and rolled them around, hitting the floor with his back. The last thing he saw was Doctor Faustus pressing the head of his cane to his chest, and then he disappeared into thin air and Steve lost consciousness.

***

He felt as if he was lying in a giant iceberg. An icy prison was covering all his body, sucking away all his warmth and life. He tried to climb up, to breathe, but every time he felt drowning again, and going even deeper into the darkness and the cold. Somebody was calling for him, mindlessly whispering prayers and begging, and Steve couldn't answer. He froze, listening.

"Steve," somebody called. "Steve, wake up. Steve, please, wake up."

The voice was familiar, but Steve couldn't recall, why.

"Stark, he needs CPR."

"Only if you want to kill him, you idiot."

He couldn't breathe. Something was pressing on his chest, crushing him to the ground, squashing him, and Steve couldn't breathe. He was choking, losing his grasp of the voices and the light.

The ground beneath him shook, and a loud rolling roar tore Steve away from the darkness. He started taking in fast stuttering breaths and quickly opened his eyes, getting stunned by the bright light.

"You're not so useless after all, Mister Hulk," said Tony. "Steve, hey, Steve. Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Tony," choked out Steve. He started coughing, his chest hurt, but it was the right kind of pain, it was telling Steve he was alive.

"Who else did you expect, hero? You know, you don't make the comfiest safety net. Steve?"

He was giving him worried looks, and only then Steve noticed his head was in Tony's lap. They took off parts of the armor from him: the plates on his chest, his face and his hands were gone, but Steve could still feel the parts of the armor on his back.

"I..." Steve tried to focus, but it was really hard. "Did we win?"

He noticed Janet, Hank and Barton standing around him, and Hulk hovering over them all, hiding half of the sky from Steve's view.

"Yeah," said Tony, "we won."


	6. People Help People

Steve heard something crash in the drawing room and jumped from his chair, before hearing Ben's muffled voice:

"Sorry, it was an accident. I'm not really used to all of this just yet."

Jarvis muttered something back, quietly, but Steve was pretty sure the drawing room would lose half its fragile items in the next ten minutes.

"You're even more paranoid, than me," said Bruce. Steve smiled and sat down again, turning his chair, so he could press his elbows to its back.

"I'm still waiting on the thrilling story of how S.H.I.E.L.D. convinced you to work for them."

"They can be persuasive," said Bruce. He adjusted his glasses and shrugged. "Besides, I doubt anybody would make me a better offer."

Steve raised his eyebrows, unconvinced, unconsciously copying Tony, and Bruce waved his hand.

"I'm not going to be my friends' charity case."

"Well," said Steve, "we still ended up together in this."

They were sitting alone in the quiet of the kitchen. Bruce didn't like crowds, even if those crowds consisted of a tight circle of scientists and friends, so he still tried to stay away. Steve, however, was grateful for his company. He felt his hand being scratched, and stood up again.

"Sorry, Tony's calling."

"Is he really a mutant?" asked Bruce. "How are you communicating?"

Steve shrugged. 

Janet caught up to him in the corridor and hugged him so hard his still healing ribs screamed in protest. She told him, three times already and not missing any details, that she and Hank got engaged, right in that room, tied up and stunned. 

Sue came up to them, whisking Janet away from Steve, and he moved on.

Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny came back a couple of days ago, while Steve was still all bandaged up, and Tony immediately got a slap on his neck with Ben's massive stone hand. Something happened to them in space. Reed said it was amazing, Ben called it a catastrophe, and Johnny just looked at everything with his eyes wide from happiness and constantly tried to set something on fire. Steve didn't know if he should've been worried or happy for them, but at least they were back, alive and in one piece, and that was already something.

Tony grabbed his hand.

"Hi."

"We saw each other in the morning," said Steve.

"Maybe, I'm just trying to be polite," Tony grimaced and moved away, leaning on the wall behind Steve's shoulder. "How do you like the party?"

"I was talking to Bruce."

"You were right, by the way. Hulk can be controlled." Tony drummed on his palm with fingers of another hand, deep in thought. Steve felt it. "Do you know what he said when he saw you on the ground? 'Safeguard'. A complicated word for that brute. Any idea what it means?"

"Sort of an advice I gave him," said Steve. "I'm happy for him."

"Are you kidding me? He's working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Who in their right mind would go work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Clint, for instance."

"Barton is a circus monkey who shoots arrows from a bow. Of course, he's fine working for S.H.I.E.L.D. But you?"

"Me," answered Steve, absent-mindedly watching Janet and Hank, Clint with a red-haired woman he didn't recognize, thinking of Bruce sitting alone in the kitchen. "I think, sometimes it's good to have a team."

Tony lowered his head on Steve's shoulder and mumbled something, his breath hot on Steve's skin, who didn’t hear a word Tony said. He was calm and happy.

Steve still thought about what happened, sometimes; wondered, if he'd ever have a chance to learn what happened in his world. Who won in the war? Who wore the armor in his place? What happened to Faustus?

Steve still thought about it and tried to brush the questions away, but even when they came they didn't hurt anymore like a new wound, and didn’t fill him with guilt. He made his choice, standing in front of Faustus, in the moment he heard the question.

He chose this world.


End file.
